


The Gay and Wondrous Life of Caleb Widogast

by orphan_account



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Asexual Character, Camping, Coming Out, Demisexuality, Eldritch, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Magical Realism, Marijuana, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Open Relationships, Other, Polyamory, Road Trips, Summer Camp, Summer Romance, Summer Vacation, summer horror lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-06-08 21:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 126,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Caleb Widogast is gay. He's never really said it out loud before.Or, the Mighty PolyNein road trip AU of a lifetime.





	1. full loaded with my face up in the clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang sets up camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, hello! It's been awhile since my last multichapter monstrosity written by the seat of my pants, so I figured it was high time to really dig into something. This is, if you can't already tell, a spin on the excellent series "The Gay and Wondrous Life of Caleb Gallo" on YouTube. I'll probably be leaning more on the CR plot for locations and such, but expect references to the original series to pop up now and then. Here are a few notes to kind of corral things:
> 
> -Modern AU! This still takes place in Exandria and everyone is still their race and class to some degree, but it's greatly influenced by the modern world, so there will probably be Fantasy McDonalds and iPhones and Ford trucks and such.  
> -I'm keeping fairly close to backstories, but with a little less heavy angst. Caleb's parents are still alive, for instance. The rest I'm figuring out as I go.  
> -This fic is a very self-indulgent exploration of polyamory. The ship tags are kind of a mess, so I'll lay it out right now: Caleb in this is definitely gay, Beau is definitely a lesbian. Nott is of an age with everyone else, but she's asexual and aromantic. Everyone else falls somewhere in between or outside of that. What fun!  
> -The tags will be updated as I go. If there are any extra warnings required, look to the notes at the beginning of each chapter.  
> -Updates! How will they go? Not entirely sure but I'm aiming for one a week. I'll set a definite day as things develop. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! And don't worry, it's almost Thursday.

_Chnk. Chnk. Chnk._ Soft green sunlight cuts through the heavy foliage above, painting splashes of color in the brown undergrowth. The piece of flint in Caleb’s hand strikes against stone, to no avail. _Chnk. Chnk._

“Ouch! Goddammit.”

“I think I saw sparks that time,” Jester chirps unhelpfully from her hammock. It was the first thing she set up when they got to the campsite, and she celebrated this small victory by immediately climbing into it and lying resplendent in the dappled shade. A can of lemonade dangles from her hand that wasn’t there a second ago. Caleb sits back on his heels and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“I don’t think this is working. I’m just going to use a lighter. Where’s Beau?”

“ _Collecting_ _firewood_ ,” Jester says, making generous air-quotes with her free hand. So, having a smoke in private. She tucks a lock of blue hair behind her ear and smiles sweetly. “Would you come give me a push please, Cay-leb?”

Caleb groans and gets to his feet, brushing dirt and dead leaves from his knees. “Fine. It’s not like we need a stupid fire anyway.”

The crunch of tires on gravel announces the arrival of a second car, and Caleb finds himself faced with an empty hammock as Jester scrambles free of it and bounds across the campsite with an unholy shriek. “ _Molly!_ ”

“Jester, my love!” Mollymauk hollers back, vaulting out of the open passenger door before the truck has even come to a stop. The driver honks irritably, but neither tiefling is paying attention. Jester leaps into Molly’s arms, legs instantly around his waist, and Caleb busies himself with going around to the back of the truck to see what needs to be unloaded instead of watching their frankly licentious display.

“Molls, Jess, cut it out,” comes Fjord’s voice as he disembarks, boisterous enough to rock the truck on its axles. “Y’ain’t even dating anymore, and none of _us_ want to see it.”

“Aw Fjord, you jealous?” Molly shoots back, although he obligingly lets Jester drop to the ground. “Friends with bennies, darling, it never really goes away.” He must give Jester a pinch on the ass, given her sudden squeak. “You look stunning, by the way. Where did you get this strappy thing?”

“TopShop!” Jester practically shouts, spinning in a circle of show off her highlighter-pink bikini… thing. “They had it in purple too, and I _almost_ wanted to get it in your size, but you know, what if the purples clashed, and I didn’t know if it was exactly your style…”

They rattle on like they do, and Caleb tentatively grabs hold of something that might be a tent.

“Cay, there you are!” Fjord booms very close to the side of his face. Caleb jumps nearly a foot in the air, and when he comes back down Fjord already has a tent in one arm and a giant cooler in the other. “Looking good, kid. Did you get a haircut?”

Caleb palms the nape of his neck shyly. “Beau convinced me,” he admits, trying not to watch the way Fjord’s biceps flex in his well-worn tank top.

“Well, it looks good.” He seems to realize he’s repeating himself, and the half-orc shakes his head enough to dislodge the sunglasses perched in his hair. They land squarely on his nose and he grins, big and toothy. “You can help me unload the truck if you want,” he says, and takes himself off to the campsite.

Caleb bites back a smile. It’s kind of comforting to know that no matter how big and brawny Fjord gets—he’s competing with Yasha now, mostly via Instagram stories—it’s still just shy little Fjord underneath, stuttering around his baby teeth. Of course, that sweet shyness happens to twist Caleb’s stomach up with butterflies these days. It’s more than a bit inconvenient.

“Cayyyyyleb.” Mollymauk has left off fawning over Jester and materializes to drape himself over Caleb instead. “I swear you’re more handsome every time I see you, darling, how are you?”

Caleb’s stomach flips the other way and he leans in obediently to exchange cheek kisses. Molly had spent some time abroad during college and returned with a wealth of mannerisms that he determinedly transplanted into their friend group. “I am good, Mollymauk,” he says, reaching around him to begin pulling equipment out of the truck bed. Molly, disinterested with helping, instead makes himself as inconvenient as possible by laying against the hatch and watching Caleb closely over his designer sunglasses.

“Jester said you tried to get the fire going,” Molly prods.

“Hff. That was a disaster. I should’ve waited for more kindling.”

Using Molly’s shoulder for balance, Caleb boosts himself up by the hitch and peeks over the truck. Still no sign of Beau. Or Nott, come to think of it. She’d been promising fish for their dinner all day, but she’s been gone for hours now. Jester has returned to her hammock and is swinging herself with a single toe pointed delicately on the ground, shamelessly complimenting Fjord’s tent-putting-up skills. Caleb swallows a twinge of disappointment and hops back down.

“Why so gloomy, darling?” Molly asks, finally hauling himself upright to collect more gear: folding chairs, a rolled-up tarp, _another_ rolled-up tarp, a camp stove, and a plastic bin full of tin cookware, all of it dumped on the ground for someone else to take care of. “Did the campfire bum you out that bad?”

“No, it’s not—it’s nothing.” Caleb grits his teeth and reaches back for the second tent. For a minute his feet kick off the ground, trying to gain another inch or two, and then he feels Molly’s hands in his back pockets, hauling him up into the truck bed. “Uh, thanks.”

“No problem _,_ sweets. It’s all right, I won’t pry.” Molly pats his backside companionably. “I’ll just get you high later and weasel it out of you then.”

Caleb returns to earth, tent in hand, and glares at him. “You can certainly try, Mollymauk,” he says, and huffs off to break up the flirt fest.

Luckily, Beau and Nott appear not much later, drawn through the woods by the shouts and laughter required for tent-pitching. (And many a pitched tent joke is made, badly, until Jester and Molly are leaning against one another, laughing so hard their faces are mere caricatures.)

“Howdy pardner,” Beau calls, goes for a fistbump. Fjord obliges her, then picks her up and swings her around in a circle, ignoring her screeches of indignation. Molly feigns disinterest as long as it takes for him to catch a whiff of pot, and then he’s all over her, prodding until they fall into the hammock with Jester and a blunt. Nott ignores them both and heads straight for the cooler she packed. Caleb wonders where the promised fish are, and decides not to ask.

“Well they’re going to be useless for the rest of the afternoon,” Fjord says, hands on his hips as he surveys the damage. The truck is half unpacked, most of the contents scattered between it and the site itself; one tent is pitched but lacking the rain tarp, and the other is still half-cobbled stakes lying in an unhappy pile in the dirt.

“It won’t be so bad.” Caleb puts his hand up to his own shoulder and snaps his fingers softly. Frumpkin slips into being and shoves his face into Caleb’s hands for pets. “I think we can manage.”

Fjord gives Frumpkin a pained look. “Cay…”

“He won’t bother you,” Caleb promises. He reaches up, up (Christ, Fjord is taller every time he sees him) and plucks his sunglasses off, slipping them onto his own head. “Come on, let’s get the tents set up.”

Fjord drags his feet a bit, but Frumpkin is good at entertaining himself and soon slips away to slink around the campsite like a shadow, sniffing everything. Together, Caleb and Fjord set the tents to rights—one for the guys and one for the girls, in theory, although that usually dissolves by the end of the week. Partially because Molly refuses to align himself to one or the other for more than a day at a time, and partially because…

Well. They grew up together. Years of enforced summer camp made bearable by one another’s company, gradually turning into long weekend trips when Fjord got his driver’s license, and then into a solid week and a half or so spent halfway roughing it in the woods outside Trostenwald. They know each other better than their own families, some of them. They’re long past any semblance of social acceptability, not to mention the occasional fluid shift between friend and… more.

Molly wasn’t the first to break down that barrier, to everyone’s surprise. Beau beat him to it, got caught making out with Jester behind the boathouse one summer right in the middle of the confusing hormonal soup that was adolescence. He'd been a junior counselor by then, and Caleb had had the unenviable job of sitting the two girls down in the rec hall after hours and berating them, stammering and holding onto his Counselor-in-Training badge for courage.

_“Look, man,” Beau said, kicking her feet up on the foosball table. “It’s not a big deal. It was a one-time thing.”_

_“Was it?” Caleb asked tiredly. Jester chewed on her lower lip and tried to look innocent. “I’m only doing this because it’s in the job description, okay. No romantic entanglements between counselors.”_

_“It’s not a romantic entanglement!” Beau protested loudly, throwing her skinny chest out like she was ready to take him down. “And no one saw us, anyway.”_

_“ **I** saw you, Beau.”_

_“You don’t count. I mean the kids. None of the **kids** saw us.”_

_“Right.” Caleb rubbed his face wearily. “Just… don’t let it happen again.”_

_“Don’t let her kiss me again, or don’t let anyone catch us again?” Jester piped up, twisting a lock of hair coyly around one finger._

_“Either. Both. Whatever.” Caleb got to his feet, confused—he didn’t really care that much, so why did his chest feel strange at the idea of his friends getting up to… whatever? It wasn’t like he was jealous. He didn't have a crush on either of them. “I won’t write you up this time, but be more careful, okay?”_

_“Okay, Caleb!” Jester sang, springing to her feet to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for being the bestest!”_

Caleb sneaks a peek over the arch of the boys’ tent, holding it still while Fjord pounds the stakes in. The hammock is full-on Molly-in-the-middle: he’s splayed across it horizontally with a fine blue-grey haze floating above his head, Beau with her head on his chest and her legs hanging off, Jester on the other side blowing smoke into his face and giggling. A bejeweled purple hand slides under her top and Caleb drops his eyes.

“Hey. You all right?”

Fjord has finished with the stakes and is standing on the other side of the tent, watching him with furrowed brows. The back of Caleb’s neck flushes hot. “I’m fine,” he says, a touch snippily. “Should we do the other tent?”

“Ah, sure.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck and glances over towards the hammock. He gives an exasperated sigh. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Caleb doesn’t mean to watch, but the corner of his eye catches Molly’s friendly _halloo_ and then a great chorus of shrieks as Fjord upends the hammock. Blue and purple and brown limbs go flying—Beau is already cursing up a storm. Caleb bites his lip to hide a grin and turns away. _Thank you, Fjord_.

It doesn’t bother him too much, really, that his friends are so demonstrative with each other. They all pretty much hug and kiss cheeks and pile together for naps on these trips. But Molly copping a feel in the hammock feels a little more… serious.

Fjord returns triumphant, and Beau materializes to help with the girls’ tent, bruised and pouting, and so the rest of setup doesn’t take long at all. When Frumpkin returns from his scouting mission to coil around Caleb’s legs, the sun has sunk a few more inches toward the skyline, barely visible through the trees, and Molly is alone in the hammock. He appears to be sleeping, ankles crossed delicately and tail dragging slightly on the ground, but when Caleb tiptoes past him toward the truck, a rumble in the tiefling’s chest gives him pause.

“Cay.”

“Mmp?”

One red eye peeks open, crinkled at the corners. “C’mere.”

Caleb glances over his shoulder. Jester is nowhere to be seen; Nott is snoozing by the as-yet-unlit fire. Beau and Fjord are wrestling with the blow-up mattresses, but the noise drives Caleb insane so he usually gets a free pass from having to assist. Instead he draws nearer to the hammock and hunkers down on his heels to be at eye-level with his friend.

“Ja, what is it?”

Molly opens both eyes and turns toward him a bit, making the hammock swing. “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier. It’s been forever since I’ve seen Jess and we got a little silly.”

Caleb blinks, but the cloud of confusion lingers like the faint smell of weed on Molly’s crop top. “There is nothing to apologize for, it’s understandable. Just maybe keep the fucking to a minimum the first night.”

Molly blows out a heavy breath that stirs the flop of hair curled artfully over his brow. “We’re not going to be fucking at all, Caleb. Well,” he amends at Caleb’s disbelieving look, “maybe a little bit. But I know it wigs you and Nott out, so.”

Caleb looks toward the fire again. The racket of the blow-up mattresses covers their conversation, but Nott has excellent hearing. He lowers his voice. “It does not… wig me out.”

“No? Well, for Nott’s sake then.” Molly laces his fingers together on his chest. “I thought—I mean, you seemed put off by it earlier. That’s all.”

Caleb studies the ground. A tiny ant is tottering its way across the dirt, carrying a speck of something far bigger than its body. “It’s hard to explain,” he says to it.

“Try?” Molly asks. “If you want. I don’t like seeing my boy upset.”

Caleb smiles inadvertently and flicks a pebble with thumb and forefinger. “I’m not bothered, truly. I just… envy you, I suppose.”

“Envy me?” He can practically hear the lift of Molly’s eyebrows off his forehead. “If you wanted a bit of Jessie on the side I’m _sure_ she’d be amenable—her tastes are wide and varied, darling. Not to say that you’re, um, particularly… varied?”

Caleb is already shaking his head. “That’s not what I—I don’t want to sleep with Jester. Or any—” The last word gets stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know why. It’s _Molly_. One of his dearest friends, and the last person on earth to judge anyone for their preferences. And yet it occurs to him that he’s never said it out loud. _I’m gay._

It’s been quiet for awhile, Caleb realizes. Molly isn’t looking right at him anymore, but Caleb can feel the weight of his attention bent toward him nonetheless. Like Frumpkin when he settles nearby, ears pricked in Caleb’s direction for the slightest sound. Still, Caleb can’t get the words out.

“Any _one_?” Molly fills in gently after another minute or so.

Caleb takes a deep breath. “Any _women_.”

“ _Ahhh_.” There’s a growing smile on Molly’s face, in spite of the way he bites his cheek to placate it. He taps his fingertips together rapidly instead of bursting into raucous applause—a concession to Caleb’s private nature—and his tail lashes eagerly against the ground. “That’s great, Cay. I mean, any way you are is great. I’m just.” He takes a deep gulp of air, like he’d been holding it. “Wait. Have you ever told anyone?”

Caleb shakes his head shyly.

“Caleb Widogast, you sly dog.” Molly finally gives in to the energy crackling through him and swings his legs around to sit up in the hammock. He pats the canvas and when Caleb obliges him by sitting, he wraps Caleb up in a fierce hug. Caleb hugs back, breathing in stale incense and weed. A familiar, comforting aroma. “You’re fantastic,” Molly whispers in his hair. He pulls away and pats Caleb’s cheek, grinning. “Are you going to say anything to the others?”

“Eventually.” Caleb shrugs. “I know I’m the last to come out, and everyone probably knows anyway…”

“So what if they do? It’s still something to be celebrated! If you want to,” Molly adds quickly. “Here, hang on—a celebratory bowl, just between the two of us.”

He rummages in his pocket pulling out a lighter and the little leather case with the glass bowl inside. It was a present from Jester, Caleb recalls, a clear purple piece studded with tiny silver stars and moons. Molly’s experienced hands pack it with fresh green and he passes it over. “First hit to the most darling grad student in the world.”

Caleb rolls his eyes but accepts the bowl. He’s not as practiced about it, but he manages to inhale without coughing too badly and passes it back. Molly sucks up the little wisp of smoke still wafting from the end and flicks the lighter again.

“There. Better put it away before Beau comes sniffing around.” The leather case goes away again as soon as it had come and Molly sighs. “So, wait. You were saying you were envious, before.”

“Hmmm? Oh! Ja.” Caleb rubs his nose and leans a little harder into Molly’s warm, sturdy shoulder. He doesn’t smoke very often, and it’s already starting to settle pleasantly in the base of his skull. “I am envious sometimes because I wish I could be that…” He waves a hand around in demonstration. “Touchy-feely. But it is hard for me, you know. Even with.”

“Even with us,” Molly finishes. “Well, hey, we can work on that. Baby steps. There’s nothing wrong with a little friendly platonic cuddling.” He nudges Caleb’s elbow with his own. “Can I put my arm around your shoulders?”

“Sure. Please.” Caleb is surprised at how easily affection comes to him today. It must be the long, torturous spring spent buried neck-deep in texts for his graduate degree, preventing him from even keeping track of the group chat most days. And the weed probably has a little something to do with it.

It’s really nice, cuddling with Molly in the hammock. The mattresses are all set, finally, and a tenuous peace has enfolded the campsite. Nott has wandered off, hopefully to attempt fishing again. Beau is crouched by the fire ring blowing on a tiny stream of smoke. They’ll have a campfire after all. Fjord appears to be taking a break from setting up and is sagging low in a single camp chair, taking a deep pull from his beer as he scrolls through his phone. Caleb stifles a giggle in his throat. Never let it be said that the Mighty Nein know how to camp properly.

“What’re you laughing at?” Molly murmurs. Warmth swells up in Caleb’s chest at the nearness of his friend and the gentle voice in his ear, and he tips his nose against Molly’s collarbone.

“Nothin’. Just, us. All of us.” Caleb gets an arm around Molly’s waist and squeezes gently. A little purr kicks up in Molly’s chest and he grins. “It’s good to be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my unnamed friend who gently corrected literally everything I tried to write about marijuana consumption. I'm that vine, you know the one. Also, this marks my 100th fic on AO3!!! Yeehaw! 
> 
> The track for this chapter: "I've Been Waiting on the Summer" by VHS Collection.


	2. new reasons to sing my songs come swiftly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang plays Never Have I Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far this story is trucking along at a pretty good clip, so I decided to post as the whims take me. Thanks so much for the feedback I've gotten already, I'm excited to go on this journey with y'all! HAPPY THURSDAY. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: alcohol consumption, references to religious intolerance.

_Seventeen years prior._

Caleb liked to wander. Too many people made him nervous, and his cabin was a rowdy, overcrowded bunch of boys from all over the southern regions of the Empire. To his great dismay, only one or two spoke Zemnian, and none of them had accents, which put him at a bit of an out among his peers. They all formed one or two close-knit groups the very first night, and Caleb—shy, nervous newcomer with a slight stammer—was on his own.

He decided eventually that he preferred it. Their cabin counselor, Bryce, was a softspoken person who didn’t mind that Caleb occasionally wandered off, as long as he came back to the group in time for the next activity. Today was swimming hole day, which gave him even more freedom to do as he pleased. While the others splashed and threw mud at each other, Caleb dragged his feet along the sandy shore in search of interesting stones. Maybe a tadpole.

Somehow he ended up halfway along the lake, digging in the sand to look for mussels and whacking at rushes with a good sturdy stick he found poking above the water.The shouts of his cabinmates were mere echoes far behind him, so when he heard laughter ahead through the reeds, his curiosity was piqued.

He crept to the edge of the rushes and peered through, crouching behind a partially submerged log. There, at a smaller watering hole that didn’t even have a lifeguard chair to legitimize it, was a cluster of three older boys making faces and obnoxious noises at a small, chubby, dejected boy a year Caleb’s junior. He knew he must be younger because he was wearing one of the salmon pink PeeWee cabin shirts. It clashed horribly with his green skin. And, more importantly, drew attention to the watery eyes leaking tears all over his front.

Caleb didn’t consider himself to be particularly brave. But something about the snot-nosed orc boy and the way his chubby hands covered his mouth protectively struck a chord. Caleb wriggled backward, deeper into the reeds, and found a few hand-sized stones in the muck. He hefted one in his hand and took aim. Unfortunately he wasn’t much of a sportsman, and the rock went sailing over the older boys’ heads, landing with a _gloosh_ in the lake shallows.

“Hey!” The bullies whipped around, looking toward the water. “What was that?”

“A shark?” said one, making Caleb roll his eyes. _Yes, a shark. In a shallow lake. In the middle of a landlocked country. Definitely._

“Don’t be dumb, there’s no sharks in freshwater.”

“Then what made that splash?”

Caleb tuned them out and concentrated. He’d only been going to Rexxentrum’s Preparatory School for Young Wizards for half a year, but he’d already memorized the textbooks for next fall and he knew a little bit of prestidigitation.

“Holy shit dude, is that a gator?”

One of the boys gave a yelp and booked it. The other two exchanged nervous looks. Caleb frowned and wiggled his fingers, and the dead log floating just below the surface of the water seemed to turn its scaled head toward shore.

That was the last straw. The bullies turned tail and fled, leaving great scraping footprints behind in the wet sand. The half-orc boy tried to run too, at first, but he tripped and fell face-first into the lake mud, and it seemed to be too much effort to get up again. Caleb trotted over and helped him up, wiping tears and sand from his face.

“Don’t worry, the gator isn’t real,” Caleb said. “Next time you should just punch them. Or bite them,” he corrected, seeing the nubby little tusks poking out of his lower gums.

The boy sniffled wetly. “Thank you for saving me,” he whispered. Poor little guy had a lisp and everything. Caleb, against his will, found his heart melting.

"C'mon," he said, "let's go get ice cream."

"Really?" The boy's eyes went huge and golden. "But the mess isn't open yet."

Caleb smiled. "Don't worry, the cook's a big softie. Just push out a few more of those crocodile tears. I'm Caleb, by the way."

"Fjord," said the boy shyly. He reached out a hand, and when Caleb went to shake it, Fjord just held onto it instead. 

* * *

_Present day._

The fire is dwindling. Fjord and Beau kept it going through supper between the two of them (“Thank goodness we have _some_ butch folks around,” Molly joked), but now that the mountain pies have been eaten and everyone is at least two beers in, the coals are growing dim.

“Sorry I didn’t catch any fish,” Nott mumbles around her flask. She kicks it back for a long swig and passes it to the left. Molly gives it a dubious sniff, sips, and hastily passes it to Caleb.

“It’s okay Nott!” Jester says brightly. “Those mountain pies were soooo yummy.”

She’s only been drinking lemonade all night, so she’s the freshest out of all of them, but Caleb sees her stifle a yawn into the sleeve of her borrowed hoodie. It’s one of Fjord’s, oversized on Jester, with Greek embroidered across the front. It must smell of woodsmoke and Fjord by now, he thinks rather wistfully, and then stifles the thought. He’s avoided falling into that pit in previous years, and he’ll avoid it again.

“We should play a drinking game,” Jester is saying now, even as Caleb coughs around a mouthful of booze. He’s not entirely sure what it is—he has a sneaking suspicion it’s a mixture of things.

“Excellent idea,” Beau exclaims. “What should we play?”

“Never have I ever!” Nott shouts even as Jester suggests, “Truth or Dare!”

Everyone is instantly a little more awake as the two women face off, hands already out in front of them. They’re sitting across the fire pit from each other so they rock paper scissors over the coals.

“Paper takes rock!” With a hoot, Nott jumps to her feet and does a victory dance. She kicks a discarded beer can in her delight and it goes scampering out of the circle of firelight and disappears. “Oops. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

Molly rubs his hands together. “This game gets more fun every year! Who’ll go first?”

“Ooh, me! Me!” Jester says, waving.

“Let’s start off a little easier,” Beau interjects. “Is there anything you _haven’t_ done, Jess?”

Jester hums primly. “Never have I ever drunk alcohol.”

There’s a round of groans from the campfire. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” Fjord wonders, but everyone takes a sip of whatever they have. Caleb chokes down another sip of Nott’s foul concoction and passes it to the left. Jester drinks from her lemonade in solidarity.

“Okay, who’s next!”

“I’ll go,” Nott says. “Never have I ever been on a boat.”

“Oh c’mon,” Fjord groans, but he takes a long pull from his beer anyway. It has to be his fourth or fifth of the evening, Caleb thinks, but he seems to be holding it well. Beau and Jester both drink as well, and Caleb goes to the cooler for a hefeweizen to clean his mouth out.

“Molly, what about you?”

“Can’t remember, darling. Not to my knowledge.”

“Fine,” Nott grumps. “You can go next.”

“Oh, delightful.” Molly taps his fingers around the wine cooler in his hand, rings clinking against the glass. “Hmmmm. Never have I ever… pierced my nipples.”

“I call bullshit!” Caleb says before he can think about the words. There’s a beat of quiet and then raucous laughter explodes around the fire ring.

“Would you like proof?” Molly purrs, already yanking up the hem of his crop top and letting his cardigan slump off his shoulders for extra effect. Caleb’s eyes zero in on Molly’s chest without quite asking permission. Sure enough, his nipples are small and round and without adornment.

“But,” Caleb says weakly, “you’ve got piercings almost everywhere else…”

“Nipple rings are dangerous, man. They get caught on shit.” Molly finally drops his shirt and smooths the front of it. Caleb swears he can still see Molly’s nipples, puckering through the fabric. He swallows. “All right then, who _does_ drink for that one?”

Jester sips primly from her lemonade. Beau hesitates, glancing around the circle, and takes a gulp of her beer. Molly shrieks.

“Beauregard! You didn’t!”

“I’m not showing anyone my tits except Jester. Later. In _private_ ,” Beau says, crossing an arm over her flat chest defensively.

“Fine, fine, be that way.” Molly nudges Caleb. “Your turn, Cay.”

“Uhm. Oh… never have I ever… gotten a tattoo?”

Molly groans. “You’re doing that on purpose after the last one,” he complains, but he drinks, as do Beau and Fjord.

“You guys! I’ve only had one drink!” Nott complains.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah but it’s not as much fun.”

“Maybe you should live a little more _wildly_.”

“All right, all right.” Fjord taps his fingers on the arm of his camp chair. “Never have I ever won a drinking contest.”

Nott cheers and slams her flask, returned to her after its journey around the circle. “Thanks Fjord.” She wipes the back of her mouth and squints across the fire at Caleb thoughtfully. _Here goes._ “Never have I ever had sex.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” Molly complains again. Everyone around the circle lifts their bottles. Except Caleb, who studies the logo on his beer and burns with embarrassment.

“Wait, really?” Nott yelps. “I knew it! I _knew_ it.”

“Shut up, Nott.”

“Yeah, shut up Nott,” Beau echoes belligerently. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Because he’s my boy!” Nott hollers. She’s definitely well past tipsy and falling straight into drunk, and Caleb is just buzzed enough to not mind too much when she stands on a camp chair and proclaims, “Caleb is my son and he works too bloody fucking hard and doesn’t know how to take time for himself!”

“All right, easy Nott,” Fjord drawls. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Nott sticks her tongue out at him, but flops back into her seat, legs tucked underneath her. “Caleb, you promised me you were gonna get laid this semester. What happened?”

Caleb shrugs. “I got busy, that’s all.” He resolves, again, not to mention the painfully awkward five minutes he spent in a closet with Astrid several summers ago. He no longer considered himself _questioning_ after that. “But this is not a game to talk about my sex life.”

“Or lack thereof,” Jester corrects.

Caleb ignores her. “You haven’t gone yet, Beauregard.”

Beau smirks. “Fine. Never have I ever seen Fjord’s dick.”

Fjord’s eyes close in mortification as everyone breaks out laughing. “It was an _accident_ ,” he protests.

“A very drunk accident.” Molly tips his head back and takes his time sipping from his bottle, tongue rolling around the rim suggestively. “Lesson learned, eh? Never go shot for shot with Fjord unless you want him to take his pants off.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t wear underwear,” Jester muses.

Fjord covers his face. “It was just that one time! My underwear was wet from swimming!”

“Fine, fine.” Molly waves them all quiet. “Here’s mine, since _some of you_ ,” he glares at Caleb, “aren’t drinking nearly enough to make this interesting. Never have I ever graduated college.”

Everyone makes a show of complaining, but drinks. Caleb leans close to nudge him in the ribs. “That one isn’t going to work next year, my friend.”

Molly makes a sour face. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Caleb makes a note to ask him about it later, gently, in private. When he isn’t quite so drunk and prone to making an ass of himself.

Their group has a long and colorful history, but Mollymauk was a special case. He showed up at summer camp long after their group had formed, in those fuzzy adolescent years between being campers and being camp counselors. He was much quieter then, barely speaking, spending most of his time by himself and with Yasha. The shaved head and the scars had most of the campground buzzing with rumors, each one uglier and more unkind than the last.

Jester took it upon herself to adopt him. _Tieflings stick together_ , she said then, and still says it now, sometimes with frankly dirty implications. It only took two days for them to become fast friends, and suddenly their group of seven became nine. They are seven again, ever since Astrid and Eodwulf parted ways, but the pun sticks. Caleb is proud of that one.

“Never have I ever slept with someone in our crew,” Fjord is saying.

“Okay, but as in like slept or as in, like, _slept_.” Jester leans over the coals, making her purple eyes glow reflectively in the low light. “Because you _knowww_ we have all of us slept together, Fjord.”

Fjord rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “You know I meant sex, Jester.”

She squeals with laughter and claps her hands. “I know, I just wanted to hear you say it. Does that mean I need to drink many times for all of the ones of you I’ve had sex with?”

“Does it matter?” Molly inquires. “You’re drinking lemonade, darling.”

“I know, but I still want to be fair.”

“I’m drinking because I want to drink, not because I’ve slept with any of you,” Nott mumbles, sipping covertly from her flask. It surely must be running light by now, but Caleb sees no signs of her slowing down. Maybe she’s been secretly refilling it all night and he just hasn’t noticed.

“Would you like to change that, Fjord?” Molly says once he’s finished drinking. Fjord had made no move to sip from his own beer. 

Fjord splutters. “Sorry, what?”

“As we’ve established, I’ve seen your dick. It’s quite a nice one. And you just saw my tits.” He pats his chest matter-of-factly. “So, you know, we’re halfway there.”

“I’m, uh. I’m mighty flattered,” Fjord stammers.

“That’s not a no!” Beau cackles. She finishes off her beer and chucks it at the garbage bag they’ve got hanging off a nearby tree branch. It misses spectacularly and goes sailing into the dark. “Whoops.”

“Fuck’s sake, Beau. Go get that, would you?” Fjord says, latching onto the distraction.

Jester is having none of it. “Truth or dare!” she shouts. She flings her hands out and Caleb feels a distinct tingle in the back of his mind. He makes a token effort to resist it, but with the beer fogging his brain he’s just a little too slow.

“Jesterrrr,” Nott whines. “Not Zone of Truth!”

“But it’s so much fun!” Jester pouts a bit. “I won’t ask anything if it really bothers anybody.”

“Give me a minute and I can dispel it,” Caleb offers. “I just need, um.” He doesn’t have any molasses on hand. Maybe a marshmallow will suffice? “Nevermind, I don’t have the components.”

There’s a few seconds of awkward quiet. The Nott murmurs, somewhat sadly, “Do you guys like me?”

Caleb’s heart lurches in his chest. It’s no chore to blurt out, “Ja, Nott, of course I like you,” almost drowned out by a chorus of the same.

“Why would you think we wouldn’t like you, man?” Beau says, and it’s obviously just a continuation of the conversation, but Nott doesn’t even hesitate in her answer and Caleb knows she’s caught up in the spell, too.

“Well everyone here likes to pair off—or triple off, or square off? And I’m just. I’m here.” She stuffs her flask in her mouth and starts chugging.

Jester crawls across her blanket on hands and knees and puts her arms around Nott, who squirms but doesn’t protest. “We love you very much Nott, just the way you are. Okay?”

“Okay,” Nott says. Then she _does_ push Jester off, grinning to soften the blow. “Tell the truth Jester, do you have a big old crush on Beau?”

“Of _course_ I do.” Jester leans over and smooches Beau hugely on the cheek. “Who does everyone like here! You have to tell me!!”

“I like all of you equally, almost,” Molly says placidly. “I like Beau slightly less than the rest of you.”

“I’m not offended, I don’t want to get into your pants either, Moll,” Beau shoots back. Molly blows her a kiss and she pretends to wave it away like a particularly annoying fly.

Caleb can feel words bubbling up in his chest, burning a little in his esophagus. Or maybe that’s just heartburn. _Fuck, I’m getting old._ “I like all of you as well,” he says quietly to placate it. “You are all my dearest friends.”

“Aw, Caleb.” Molly leans in, bumping shoulders and batting his eyelashes. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“You’re very pretty, Mollymauk.” Caleb gives his cheek a rough pat-pat and gets a cursory kiss on the cheek in return. The bubbles in his stomach intensify.

“Fjord, am I pretty?”

“Sure, Molly.”

Molly peers at him past Caleb’s shoulder, red eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “That didn’t sound very convincing, _Fee-yord_.”

Fjord grins and taps the side of his head. “Didn’t take. Sorry Jess.”

“Dammit!” Jester hollers. “I wanted to ask you _so many things!_ ”

“I mean, ask away. But I can’t guarantee I’m gonna answer truthfully.”

Beau coughs out a laugh. “You’re such a shit, Fjord.”

“I’m well aware.”

The banter continues over the dying coals, and Caleb lets his attention wander. It’s been so long since he felt like this: calm and content, brushing elbows with his friends, letting the thick film of grad school stress dissolve into nothing. The beer in his hand grows light and so does his head. The truth spell dissipates after a little while, but Jester keeps shooting questions at everyone, Fjord in particular. Unbothered, Fjord answers all of them in an increasingly thick drawl that lays like syrup at the edge of Caleb’s hearing.

At some point he finds himself leaning, and leaning. Molly’s lap is very comfortable under his head, the ground made bearable by Jester’s patchwork blanket. Molly’s fingers thread through Caleb’s hair and he floats there in delighted bliss, letting the chatter of his friends ebb and flow around him like the tide.

“Worst kiss ever, go,” he hears Molly say, a bit distantly. Caleb wrinkles his nose.

“Astrid.”

Silence falls. He peeks an eye open and finds Molly staring down at him, mouth slightly agape. Oh. Had he said that out loud?

“Are you awake, Caleb darling?” Molly asks.

“Yes,” Caleb admits. Zone of Truth faded a while ago now, but he’s too tired and too tipsy to bother with evading the conversation.

“Astrid was so pretty,” Beau says dreamily. She’s laying down too, arms behind her head, feet pointed toward the fire. “Not that good a kisser though, huh?”

“We were fifteen,” Caleb says slowly. “Nothing is good when you’re fifteen.”

“Preach.” Beau flails her arm in his direction for a drunken fistbump. Caleb is too far away, so Molly leans over and completes the gesture for him. “I didn’t know you had a thing for her.”

“I… it wasn’t really a _thing_. Just an experiment.” Caleb glances up at Molly again. His red gaze has turned to the glowing coals and the dark woods beyond, barely illuminated by the slivers of moonlight peeking through the trees. Caleb can hear Nott snoring, but when he glances over, Jester’s chin is in her hands and Fjord is watching, too, still nursing a beer, yellow eyes heavy-lidded and strange. “You know, it’s really super creepy that all of your eyes glow in the dark.”

Jester giggles and blinks rapidly at him, making her eyes look like tiny purple strobe lights the size of marbles. “Sorry Cay-leb. It’s kind of hot though, right? _Beau_ thinks it’s hot.”

Caleb flicks an idle hand at her. “Beau is a disaster lesbian, I wouldn’t trust her judgement.”

“Oi!” A pebble is flicked across the ground at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Caleb shuts his eyes again, grinning. “It’s okay, I am a disaster gay, so we have solidarity. Or something.”

There’s a soft little bubble of quiet that wells up around the campsite, and then Beau gives a soft _whoop_ and pounds the dirt with her fists. “Fuck yes! Gay best friends!”

“Gay best friends,” Caleb echoes obligingly. He covers his face with his hands despite the dark. “That, uh. Isn’t really how I meant to do that.”

Molly shakes with laughter underneath him, and he can hear Fjord’s chuckle like distant thunder, low and raspy in his chest. He blushes, and is thankful for the dark.

“It’s okay,” Beau says around a tremendous yawn. “Shit happens. Hey, speaking of shit—”

“You need to take a shit?” Molly interjects.

“No, dude! Gross! I was wondering about Astrid and Wulf. They kind of just… drifted away. I don’t think we’ve even bothered pretending to invite them to this thing the past few years. Does anyone even talk to them anymore?”

Caleb’s smile fades and he feels the pit of his stomach grow cold. It’s been a while since… since. Molly’s hand has grown still in his hair.

“I don’t,” Fjord is saying. “I sent Wulf an email like, last year? Inviting him to my graduation shindig, just on the off chance, but never heard back.”

Molly leans down a bit and whispers so that only Caleb can hear. “Is something wrong, Cay?”

Caleb shakes his head a bit. Nothing is wrong _right now_. Many things had been wrong about six years ago, the last summer they’d spent at camp together. He remembers, quite vividly, Wulf cornering him in an empty cabin—the rough-hewn wooden logs at his back, Wulf’s angry snarl as he demanded to know how long Caleb and Astrid had been _dallying._

“We had,” Caleb hears himself say, “a falling-out. A misunderstanding.”

“ _Oh_.” Beau props herself up on her elbows. “You never said anything about it. Was it, like, rough?”

“You don’t have to say,” Molly adds quickly. His thumb grazes the arch of Caleb’s brow lightly. “Right, Beau?”

“What? Oh yeah, right, obviously.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Caleb sits up, still leaning into Molly’s warmth, and is silently grateful for the gentle rubbing hand along his hunched spine. “Wulf got it into his head that Astrid and me were, ah, an item. He told me he had already…” He makes a face at the memory, “ _staked his claim_ , he said.”

“Ew, what the fuck?”

“Beau, shut up,” Molly says sharply. Across the fire, Nott stirs awake in her seat. She seems to pick up on the tense atmosphere right away, but she keeps silent, watching Caleb with slitted yellow eyes. She knows this story already. Caleb breathes.

“Their parents were very religious,” he says. “So are mine, but not… not like that. Wulf and Astrid were pretty much told to be together, from childhood. He thought I was leading her astray. And then.” He huffs a small laugh. “Then I kicked him in the nuts and told him his girlfriend was a shit kisser, and I ran. I don’t think we’ve spoken since.”

Molly and Beau and Jester give cheers of approval, and Fjord raises his drink in a toast. “Hear, hear. That’s really fuckin’ shitty though, Caleb. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Caleb shrugs. “I didn’t want to, ah. Rock the boat. And we weren’t coming back to camp again, anyway. When we decided to get together the next summer on our own and they didn’t come… well, I was relieved and happy to let them fade from our little group.”

There is a moment of thoughtful quiet as they ponder old friendships and summers long faded into sepia-toned memory. Molly’s fingers tap a playful rhythm on Caleb’s back. _Shave and a haircut, two bits._

The beer-tinged quiet of contemplation is broken by a distant rumbling sound. Caleb lifts his head, turning his ear toward the long, winding track that leads to their site. A tickle of delight flutters in his chest. “Is that…?”

“It’s Yasha!” Jester whoops. She scrambles to her feet, kicking the blanket this way and that in her excitement as headlights cut through the trees and the rumble grows more insistent. Soon enough, Yasha’s growly old Dodge Commander drifts into view like an ancient ship rising from its watery grave, split by the trees until it comes to a shuddering halt behind Fjord’s Silverado. The horn gives a cringey _toot-toot_ and the engine cuts.

“You made it!” With a final pat to Caleb’s back, Molly skips toward the camper and nearly trips over a rock on the way. He arrives at the door unscathed in time for Yasha to step out, a big shape in the dark, illuminated faintly by the cab light of her baby filtering out into the warm summer air.

“I made it,” she echoes softly, and presses a kiss to Molly’s forehead. “Hello everyone. Sorry I’m late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I forgot Yasha, didn't you. SIKE. More deets on her sweet ride next time. The flashbacks are lots of fun so I'll probably do one in the beginning of every chapter. Let me know if I miss any warnings in the beginning, I want to try and cover the bases for y'all. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! Same name, same brand, cool new looks.
> 
> The track for this chapter: guarded by flor.


	3. a shadow resides by night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang forms a cuddle pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally sat down and wrote a timeline, so I altered chapter two's flashback time by a year or two, but it shouldn't make much difference. :) When we get further along in the story I may post it for further clarity. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: fellow emetophobes beware some minor stuff.

_Ten years prior._

He knew who Yasha was, tangentially. She was a few years his senior, so the only time they ever really crossed paths was in the mess hall or during co-ed rec time. It was hard to miss her regardless: over six feet tall put her taller than almost all of the other counselors, male, female, or otherwise, and her long ombre hair was an easily recognizable flash of monochrome that said _don’t fuck with me_ at a glance.

Then, the summer Caleb turned seventeen, Yasha had a shadow. A slim, purple shadow nearly of a height with her, but hunched, moving in step with her like he was afraid to stray out of her reach. It was Caleb’s first year as counselor, and he had spent the day herding a pack of rowdy six-year-olds around the grounds, so when Yasha waved him and Fjord over to her table in the mess after hours, he was too tired to protest.

“Hallo,” he said, slumping down on the bench opposite. Fjord swung himself sideways onto the bench and gave a friendly nod. “Good crew this year.”

Yasha smiled, which was really only the tiniest lift of her cheeks. Caleb considered it a victory. “Here,” she said, and pushed a plastic water bottle across the table at him. The logo had been peeled off, and when he lifted it to his lips, his nose hairs burned.

“What _is_ this? How did you smuggle it in?”

“I’m Head Counselor,” Yasha said with a disinterested shrug. “Don’t ask questions, Widogast, just drink.”

Caleb exchanged a look with Fjord, shrugged, and drank. Coughed, but got it down. “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely before passing it back. “Thanks.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Yasha lifted her head as the mess doors swung open and shut again, screeching on their rusty hinges. Caleb turned to look and watched as the purple shadow padded in silently, barefoot, and helped himself to a seat next to his friend. “This is Molly,” Yasha said. “He’s new.”

“Hallo, Molly.” Having been given tacit permission to do so, Caleb looked the newcomer over. He was a tiefling, with hair so short he was nearly bald, and heavy-lidded crimson eyes that surveyed Caleb and Fjord in turn. In the harsh glare of the overhead lights, buzzing in their sockets like errant flies, the pale lilac scars on his neck and arms looked like spiderwebs scrawled over his skin. The tiefling plucked at a band-aid taped to his forearm and smiled.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Yasha put in. “Moll, this is Caleb. And that’s Fjord. They’re both new counselors.”

“Evenin’,” Fjord said, a touch awkwardly. “How do you like the camp so far?”

Molly’s red eyes darted to Fjord. Even without pupils, the intensity of his focus made it easy to tell where he was looking. His smile broadened, enough to show a slight glint of white behind his lips. He did something quick with his hands, a gesture Caleb didn’t know, and tapped his own chin.

“He wants to know about your teeth,” Yasha said.

Caleb’s grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Bit rude, isn’t it?”

Molly stared right at Caleb and signed something. Yasha’s mouth twitched. “Bit rude of you to stare, isn’t it?” she translated.

“It’s fine,” Fjord said, putting a heavy hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “I keep ‘em filed, that’s all. Keeps them out of the way. There’s a stigma, you know.” He made a fist and pretended to snarl. Molly reacted immediately, putting a hand to his chest and feigning shock. “See?”

Molly’s hands started flying again, and Caleb shifted his attention to Yasha. Her eyes were fastened on her friend, keeping track of his every gesture. It pinged something familiar in the back of his head—prestidigitating an alligator in the water, sticking close to Fjord when he was still too short and stout to be his own brute squad—and relaxed a little.

“Molly, you’re going too fast,” Yasha said. “Sorry. He’s talking about the stigma with tieflings, but I didn’t follow all of it.”

Molly huffed in frustration and got up from the table. Caleb half expected Yasha to follow, but she stayed put, watching him pace around the table a few times and then return with a pout in full effect.

“Have you met Jester yet?” Caleb offered. “She’s the blue girl. Helps out at the First Aid station a lot.”

Molly cocked his head, rolled his hand around in the universal gesture for _maybe_.

“We’ll introduce you,” Fjord said. “You’ll get along like a house on fire. And not just because you’re both tieflings,” he added quickly. “It’s just… Jester.”

“He’s right,” Caleb chipped in. “It’s hard not to love Jester.”

“She is pretty cute,” Yasha said unexpectedly, then blushed. Actually _blushed_. Slowly, very slowly, Caleb and Fjord exchanged another look through the corners of their eyes. Fjord’s foot nudged Caleb’s under the table. _Ja, things are starting to get interesting._

* * *

_Present day._

The Stormchaser wheezes gently on its tired old frame as Yasha gives a perfunctory tour, shoulders hunched to avoid clipping the low ceilings with her head. It’s a world of difference from the last time Caleb was inside. There’s new everything: new floors, new walls, a mini-fridge, backsplash, a proper sink, a little fold-out table with a mason jar of fresh flowers sitting securely in a cup holder on the end. The bathroom has been entirely renovated—“I mostly shower outside though,” Yasha admits—and in the back is her queen-sized bed, well-used and well-deserved, with the wide back window pushed up to let in a breeze.

It’s a cramped fit to get everyone inside, and there’s a constant rotation of people trying to get through to the back to see everything; at one point Caleb ends up wedged inside the water closet with Fjord, his back to Fjord’s front, and as they wait awkwardly for a spot to clear out in the hallway he swears he can feel a little _something_ against his backside. Fjord’s only wearing loose basketball shorts, he remembers. He blushes clear up to his hairline and thanks heaven for the dim lighting.

“So that’s her,” Yasha says when they all pile out at last, breathless and sweaty. “She’s been almost completely overhauled at this point—all new tires, transmission lines, gas lines, starter, wiring—”

“She’s beautiful, Yash,” Molly tells her. “How many miles to the gallon, again?”

Yasha sighs. “Six and a half. Seven on flat stretches of highway. I keep extra fuel on board for emergencies.”

“You’re so cool,” Jester says dreamily. “Did you find any good storms lately?”

“A few.” Yasha’s smile is barely noticeable in the dark as she pats Jester’s head. “I missed you. I missed all of you.”

“We missed _you_!” Molly declares. He flings himself into her arms one more time, and she receives him gladly, lifting him off the ground until his tail lashes in a futile effort to stay balanced. “Are you going to sleep in the Stormchaser or cuddle with us in the tents?”

Yasha glances up at the sky consideringly. It’s so dark out here, so far from the city lights that Caleb is used to, that the stars are speckled thick like dust motes in a library. “I think I feel like sleeping outside,” she says. “Anyone who wants to join is welcome.”

Caleb casts Fjord a despairing glance. All that work putting up the tents… But it's Yasha. He doesn't have much defense against her whims. 

“If it rains,” Caleb says sleepily, “I’m blaming you, Yash.”

With Caleb’s assent, everyone hurries to rearrange their bedding. Beau claims the hammock immediately, and there’s almost a squabble between her and Nott until Yasha produces another from Stormchaser’s undercarriage. Molly and Fjord drag the blow-up mattresses out of the tents and arrange them in a vague square-ish shape between the fire and the hammocks. Caleb has visions of a torrential downpour sweeping them all down to the lake, assailed by mosquitoes and skunks and all manner of mischievous wildlife, and sighs.

A heavy hand alights on his shoulder and he leans into it instinctively. “It’ll be okay,” Fjord whispers in his ear. The hairs on the nape of Caleb’s neck stand on end at the waft of beer-y breath against his cheek. “I’ve got extra tarp, worst comes to worst I’ll string it up over the trees, but I don’t think it’s supposed to rain.”

Caleb sighs. “I’ll trust you, then. It’ll make them happy at least.” He nods to where the tieflings are joyfully arranging sleeping bags and pillows into an opulent nest.

“It’s what we live for, isn’t it?” Fjord says dryly. “C’mon, let’s claim the last mattress before Molly gets too spread out.”

It’s a very real danger. Caleb leaps into action, fetching his blanket from the tent and arranging everything just how he likes it. Yasha passes around some of her vegan all-natural bug repellent, a lemony paste that tickles Caleb’s nose, and they take turns dabbing it on themselves and helping each other with hard-to-reach places.

The dew has started to fall by the time they get settled, illuminated by the soft artificial glow of Jester’s phone. Caleb wriggles under his blankets and peels off his shorts in relative privacy while Fjord is off in the woods relieving himself. When he returns, the half-orc is wearing only a pair of boxer briefs with little yellow duckies printed on, the rest of his clothes in a bundle that he throws carelessly into the back of his truck. Molly and Jester catcall playfully, and Fjord blushes and dives into his sleeping bag.

“All right, everybody shut up!” Beau calls. She flops into her hammock in boyshorts and an oversized tee shirt, eschewing a blanket entirely. “And if I hear any funny business I’m gonna fastball special Nott right into the middle of it.”

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare,” Nott mutters from her own hammock. She’s a small lump swinging between the two trees, rolling over and over to get comfortable. Caleb thinks very hard in her direction, and a minute later there’s a curious _mrrp?_ “Frumpkin!” Nott exclaims delightedly. “There you are.”

“He was exploring.” Caleb pulls his blanket up to his nose and peers up into the night sky, querying Frumpkin on his discoveries. _Lots of fish in the lake_ , was the main impression, followed up by less interested recountings of mushrooms and fiddleheads and blackcaps to be harvested in the woods. Maybe Fjord could handle the fishing tomorrow, and Caleb and Nott could forage…

“Find anything good?” Fjord asks quietly. When Caleb looks over, he can see the faint golden glow of his eyes in the dark.

“Lots. I’ll show you tomorrow.” He watches the yellow irises curl into slits as Fjord smiles. Caleb can already feel the heat radiating off of him through the blankets.

The woods darkens further as Jester puts her phone away, and the hum of a thousand insects and tree frogs and other nightly creatures rises to the fore. If Caleb concentrates, he can hear the gentle lap of lakewater through the trees. Fjord’s foot nudges his and pulls away again.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” The quiet stretches out. He can hear Molly and Jester whispering to each other on Fjord’s other side, and gradually their conversation peters out, replaced by low tiefling purrs that barely permeate the underlayer of forest noises. Yasha, taking up an entire mattress by herself, sleeps quietly. The wind sighs in the trees and Caleb shivers a little.

“Cold?” Fjord whispers.

“A little.” Caleb wrinkles his cold nose and yawns. The plastic mattress squeaks as Fjord shifts, and then there’s a warm, heavy weight across his chest as Fjord drapes an arm over him. His heart stammers sleepily in his chest and then muscle memory kicks in. Childhood summers spent sharing tiny cabin mattresses when homesickness took root. Limbs tangled together as they rolled downhill in fresh-mown grass. Learning to swim in the watering hole, hands clasped tightly as they kicked in the soft muddy bottom and laughed so hard they could barely keep their heads above water.

“G’night, Cay,” Fjord mumbles into Caleb’s hair. He smells like lemons and woodsmoke and beer. And a little tiny bit of spicy aftershave when Caleb rolls closer.

“Night, Fjord.” Caleb shuts his eyes and drifts away.

* * *

Morning comes sooner in the woods. Screaming birds drag them awake one by one, groaning at the damp chill and the early hour. Beau scoops a rock off the ground and chucks it into the trees. “Go fuck somewhere else, stupid birds!” she shouts. There is a moment of blessed quiet, and then the cacophony begins anew.

Caleb gives up and pushes himself to sitting, reluctantly shuffling Fjord’s arm off his middle and rubbing the crusts from his eyes. “Thank you, Beauregard, now we are all most definitely awake.”

“Sorry.” Beau sounds… marginally regretful. “I’ll get the coffee started.”

“Yes please,” Yasha says. She seems unaffected by the early hour, sitting crosslegged in the center of the mattress pile with her pick out and her hair weaving slowly into braids. Jester is on her back, arms behind her head and in the midst of a jaw-cracking yawn. He can’t see Molly, but he can hear him just past the treeline, cooing to Frumpkin, so he must be taking care of personal business.

Caleb scrubs his face and hair with his hands, trying to wake up. In spite of his words, it seems like Fjord is still sleeping. Not entirely unusual. Fjord is an early riser, but he sleeps like the dead when he _is_ asleep, hardly moving and barely seeming to breathe. He’s still on his side at the moment, arm bent awkwardly between their bodies and open mouth snoring soundlessly into the pillow. The air mattress has sunk a bit during the night, and it looks like he might be touching the ground without Caleb’s upper body to keep the weight distributed evenly. It’s kind of adorable.

Moving with care, not wanting to break him from his slumber, Caleb edges off the mattress and begins gathering his dew-damp blankets to dry in the sun. And that’s when Fjord wakes up.

For a second Caleb thinks he’s swallowed a bug or something, he’s coughing so badly. The half-orc rockets up to sitting, hand to his throat—caught in a strange half-awake fugue state, Caleb just watches him cough and choke until suddenly Fjord turns onto his elbow and throws up right onto the space Caleb had just vacated.

There’s a moment of tight-strung shock, and then the entire camp springs into movement.

“Fjord!” Jester cries. “Are you all right?”

“What the fuck, man.” Beau topples out of her hammock and comes running. “I didn’t think you drank _that_ much last night.”

“I’m fine,” Fjord sputters, “fuck, sorry, I’m—I’m okay.”

The others are all awake and alert now, clustering around Fjord worriedly, but Caleb can’t make himself move. He’s frozen on his knees in the dirt, blankets hugged to his chest. Just watching.

“That wasn’t vomit,” he says, though the words are swallowed by the murmurs of concern. Only Molly seems to hear him, turning worried crimson eyes his way. It _wasn’t_. He’s seen Fjord get sick before (and Nott, and Molly, and pretty much all of them except Yasha), and it doesn’t look like that. Whatever Fjord choked up is clear and smells like nothing in particular from a foot or so away. Like water.

“What’d you say?” Nott says over her shoulder, but Molly is already moving. He runs a finger through the watery stuff pooling in the divots of the air mattress and sticks it into his mouth.

“Dude!” Beau exclaims. “That’s fucking gross!”

Fjord grimaces, actually looking queasy for the first time. “Yeah Moll, what the fuck?”

“It’s not vomit,” Molly says, sharing another look with Caleb—a _how did you know?_ sort of look. “It’s saltwater.”

There’s another rising chorus of confusion; Caleb gets to his feet and starts shooing them away, reaching out for Fjord’s hand. Fjord accepts it gratefully and between them they manage to lift the half-orc to his feet. “I’m really sorry,” he says again, low, meant primarily for Caleb’s ears. “I didn’t get you, did I?”

“Not at all, my friend.” Caleb pats his chest, peering worriedly into his face. “Are you feeling all right? Your stomach is okay?”

“My stomach feels fine,” Fjord assures him. “I’m not—I don’t know what that was.”

“Does puke sometimes taste like saltwater?” Jester says, already typing the question into Google on her phone. “Dammit, I’m not getting any signal out here.”

“Maybe?” Molly looks doubtful. He stands up from his crouch and drifts a little closer to where Fjord and Caleb stand apart from the group. “You’re sure you’re all right, big guy? You didn’t swallow water or something in the night?”

Fjord shrugs, hand out in demonstration of the clear blue sky overhead. “It didn’t rain at all, I don’t think. I feel fine now, I promise.”

Caleb looks hard at his expression. He’s known Fjord for over half his life, and he can tell when Fjord is keeping something from him. There’s a telltale wrinkle at the corner of his lip, like he’s biting the inside of his cheek a little. Right where his mouth has scarred from the time he face-planted on a bike trail and his baby tusk busted through the summer after they met. Fjord meets his eyes, quietly pleading him to drop it, and Caleb swallows back the questions burning the roof of his mouth.

 _Later_ , he thinks at him, as hard as he can. He’s only truly telepathic with Frumpkin, and Fjord isn’t much for magic, but it seems to work: Fjord gives him a subtle nod and squeezes his hand.

“Well as long as you feel okay,” Caleb relents. “Maybe some food in you will help.”

“Oh right, coffee.” Beau springs into action, trotting to fetch the cooking gear out of the back of the truck. Everyone else spreads out, going about their early morning business, and Fjord excuses himself to make use of Yasha’s loo.

“Something’s fishy here,” Molly says when it’s only the two of them. He holds out his hand in Caleb’s direction. “I swear to god it was saltwater, you can taste for yourself.”

Caleb wrinkles his nose. “I am all right on that, danke. Maybe it is… a half-orc thing?”

“Orcs aren’t ocean-y though.” Molly’s eyes grow wide and round like polished rubies. “Cay, what’s the other half?”

“The other half of what?”

“Of _Fjord_?”

“I mean. Human, right?” Caleb scratches the side of his head, chest tight and oddly uncomfortable. “I thought…”

“Yeah, we all thought, didn’t we.” Molly folds his arms across his chest. “Fjord’s keeping something from us, I can feel it. And I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Caleb says gently, “but if there’s something going on with him, we shouldn’t pressure him, okay? He’ll tell us when he’s ready. He’s a private person, you know this. Let’s just… you know. Make ourselves available if he wants to talk about it.”

“But what if—” Molly cuts himself off and looks around quickly. They’re alone, mostly— as alone as they can be in the middle of a small campsite in the woods with five other people, though Caleb can see Nott’s overlarge green ears cocked in their direction. “What if he’s sick, Cay? Like, really sick?”

Caleb gnaws on his lower lip anxiously. “Does he… seem sick?”

They turn in unison to watch as Fjord steps out of the Stormchaser, face glowing and freshly washed, wearing a clean MCU lacrosse tank top and sweatpants. He looks really good, actually, and Caleb would be tempted to say so if he weren’t so worried.

Molly clearly has no such qualms. “Dammmnnn girl, looking good,” he drawls in a passable impression of Fjord’s twang. “Lemme get a ticket to the gun show, baby.” Caleb elbows him indiscreetly in the side. “Ouch!”

“Leave him be,” Caleb reiterates, feeling strangely protective of Fjord in this moment. It’s not like Fjord isn't used to Molly’s casual flirting, but still.

“All right, all right.” Molly gives him a strange, tense sort of look. “He’s my friend too, you know,” he mutters, and then he whisks away to poke at Beau’s coffee-making skills, tail twitching behind him.

Caleb swallows past an unexpected lump in his throat. _Well this week is off to a great start._

* * *

The tension of the morning fades quickly over coffee and breakfast. Fjord is back to his regular self, commandeering the cooking station to fry up scrambled eggs and bacon and a hash of colorful summer vegetables. Nott “assists” by toasting wedges of day-old bread on sticks over the fire. Most of them end up with blackened edges, but Jester is generous with the butter, and in the end everything tastes delicious. There’s something about being outdoors that makes food ten times better, and after a semester spent surviving on ramen and hard-boiled eggs, Caleb is nearly in raptures.

When everyone has finished eating, Molly suggests a beach day—“Okay, calling it a _beach_ is generous, but I require at least a full hour of sunbathing to start the day.”—so everyone changes into swimsuits and heads for the water. Caleb notices Fjord hanging back and goes to touch his arm.

“I’ll clean up,” he offers, “since you cooked for us. Go ahead and join the others.”

Fjord gives him a searching look and nods. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” Caleb lies. If Fjord sees through it, he doesn’t say anything.

When the camp is quiet again, save for the occasional whoop and call of laughter through the trees, Caleb gives a big sigh of relief and snaps his fingers. Frumpkin poofs onto his shoulder and digs his claws in immediately, butting the side of his head.

“I’m all right, buddy,” Caleb says softly. He scratches Frumpkin behind the ears and brings him down to be cradled in his arms. A purr starts up immediately in Frumpkin’s chest. “I just need a little breathing room, ja?”

The dishes are easy. There’s a couple tubs of clean water in the back of Fjord’s truck, and he uses it to fill a metal bowl which he sets over the propane stove. With boiling water and a little soap, the dishes are soon rinsed clean and set out to dry on the folded-down hatch. Then, with one more quick look around to make sure he’s really alone, Caleb goes to the pile of mattresses still in the middle of the camp.

The water Fjord threw up that morning has mostly evaporated, leaving behind a thin film of white. When Caleb scratches with his fingernails, it dusts off easily. He brings a bit to his nose and sniffs. Nothing. Tastes very delicately with his tongue. Salt blooms in his mouth, and his stomach lurches uneasily. _Maybe Molly’s right. Maybe there’s something wrong with Fjord._

“Caleb?”

He jumps a bit at the sound of Nott’s voice and whirls around, hands jammed into his pockets. She’s standing near the edge of the clearing, damp-haired and narrow-eyed. “Ja, Nott, what is it? I was just, erm, tidying up.”

“Uh-huh. Cleaning up Fjord’s barf?”

“It’s not—” He cuts himself short and sighs. “It isn’t barf, Nott.”

Nott shakes her head stubbornly. “I know that sound very, very well, Cay.” She gives him a hard look. “He was throwing up.”

“Well come taste it then, if you don’t believe me.”

“Abso _lutely_ not.” She crosses her arms and stays put. “What’s going on, Caleb?”

“What’s going on with what?”

“With _you_.” Nott finally relents and storms across the open ground to stand in front of him, arms akimbo. He’s got at least a foot on her, but he still finds himself shrinking back a little, confused by her intensity. “You were talking to Molly earlier and now you’re all upset and withdrawn. I thought last night was good fun. You seemed like you were… having fun.”

“I was! I am!” Caleb’s hackles are starting to rise. “Everything is fine, Nott. You don’t always have to be so protective of me, you know. I am an adult man. I can take care of myself.”

The hard yellow gleam of Nott’s eyes grows soft and she shakes her head at him. “I know you’re a big boy, Caleb. I just. I worry.” She crouches when Frumpkin comes meowing in her direction and Caleb asks him to put his forepaws on her knee and lick her chin. “Frumps, quit it!” she says, but doesn’t really make an effort to push him off. “You really gotta stop using your familiar as a way to relate to people, Caleb. That’s like, fourth year stuff.”

“Well, sometimes it helps,” Caleb snips. Then, feeling bad, he flops onto the half-deflated mattress and pulls his knees to his chest to be on eye level. “I’m just worried about Fjord. I know something’s wrong but he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Nott rolls her eyes. “Aw jeez, who does that remind me of?”

“Shut up, Smalls.”

“ _You_ shut up, Gassy.” She reaches out with her fist and holds it there until he bumps it with his own. “Moping back here isn’t going to help anyway, so just get your swim trunks on and come out and play with us. Fjord is gonna catch us a fish with his bare hands.”

“Uh-huh.” Caleb muffles a smile in his arms. “Does _he_ know that?”

“He will when Beau dares him to, leaving him no choice but to accept her challenge or forever be declared a whiny pissbaby.” Nott springs up, startling Frumpkin into _poofing_ out. “Oops. Sorry Frumps!” she calls to the open air. “Anyway, I came back here for a real reason that isn’t you. Jester needs sunscreen.”

“Oh, okay. Sweet of you to come get it.”

Nott rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sweet. That’s me. Tip to toe, just as sweet as can be.” She kicks him gently in the shin and takes off for Jester’s bright pink backpack.

“Ow!” Caleb yells after her, without heat. “That hurt, Nott!”

“Whatever!” comes the careless reply. Then, muttering to herself, “Fucking hell, I did _not_ need to see that. Caleb, do you know where Jester keeps her regular camping stuff that isn’t flavored lube?”

Caleb waits a beat, then dissolves into helpless laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Yasha's ride comes from the IG account/blogger a.girl.and.her.commander. Pretty much all the details are ripped straight out that reno project. You can find her blog here: https://agirlandhercommander.wordpress.com/.
> 
> Also: yes I'm caught up on CR. Yes I'm denial. What of it. 
> 
> The track for this chapter: Science/Visions by CHVRCHES.


	4. get inside and pull on my sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes for a swim.

_Fourteen years prior._

There was someone staring at him. He couldn’t see where they were, but he could feel their eyes on him in the mess hall: staring at the red-headed freckle-faced boy with the weird accent, sitting all by himself at dinner. Caleb drew his shoulders in close and poked his peas with his fork. It wasn’t fair that Fjord had sprained an ankle and was holed up in the cabin for two more days. With Fjord, they were unstoppable. Without him it was just little Caleb, legs too skinny, knees too knobbly. Voice all weird and scratchy and shy. He stabbed his tray vindictively and ached for the end of dinner bell to ring.

Someone slammed their tray on the table opposite him and Caleb jumped, inadvertently flinging a pea in the stranger’s direction. “S-sorry,” he stammered automatically, and then he made eye contact.

Yellow eyes, like Fjord’s, but bigger and greener, with giant black pupils like a cat’s. The eyes were pretty much all he could see—their owner was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood pulled low, dark green bangs hanging over her face and a cute paper mask with a little bear face printed on covering her mouth. Caleb had seen masks like that in magazines before, but never in real life.

“Hi,” he said, when no greeting was forthcoming. There was no response. “Uh. Are you going to beat me up or something? Steal my lunch money?”

The yellow eye blinked and a derisive snort came from behind the mask. “We don’t use lunch money here, dweeb,” said a scratchy voice. A hand came up, swamped by the oversized sleeve of the hoodie, and yanked the mask down. Caleb clutched his fork and very determinedly didn’t flinch away. “Can I sit here or what? There’s nowhere else.”

Caleb glanced around. It was true. Everyone else was sitting together in preordained groups, some according to cabin, others by clique, others by force of habit. No one was really looking in their direction, and Caleb decided he preferred being invisible to being stared at. “I guess not,” he said. “I’m not very good company, though.”

The girl behind the bear mask looked around, too, like she was waiting for someone to pounce on them. “Right. Well, me neither.” A little hand stuck out across the table, exposing green fingertips and short-trimmed nails painted black. “I’m Nott.”

“Not what?” Caleb asked, mystified.

“Nott! It’s my name! There are two t’s.” She waved her hand in the hair. “Helloooo. I don’t have cooties or anything, okay.”

“Then why are you wearing a mask?” Caleb asked. He shook the offered hand, though.

Nott hesitated, then admitted. “My teeth are kinda weird.”

Caleb was familiar with that particular woe. Fjord’s baby tusks were even bigger than last year, and unless he was with Caleb (thank goodness the camp organizer had seen fit to put them in the same cabin, in spite of the age difference), he rarely spoke, preferring to keep his lips tightly shut.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind. How are you gonna eat unless you take it off?” Caleb peered down at his own tray, somewhat dismal at the prospect of finishing his peas. “I won’t look if you like.”

There was a brief pause. “You’re friends with that orc kid.”

“His name is Fjord, and yes, I am.”

“His teeth are weird, too.” Another pause. “Yeah, whatever.” Nott pulled down the mask, letting it crinkle up under her chin, and stared defiantly across the table at him.

Caleb looked for a moment, nodded, and went back to his dinner. After a beat, he heard a soft _huh_ from across the table, and then the scrape of silverware against a plastic tray. “If you aren’t busy after dinner,” he said, “you should help me smuggle some ice cream to Fjord later. I think you will like him.”

Nott stabbed her meatloaf viciously with her fork. “Maybe, but will he like me? _No_ _one_ likes me.”

“I like you,” Caleb said. “And Fjord likes the people that I like. So, you know. I think your chances are pretty good.” 

* * *

_Present day._

Nott doesn’t like the water. She never has. The watering hole at summer camp was her worst nightmare, and Caleb remembers many hours of splashing in the shallows, or learning to dive off the rocks, while Nott sat in the shade of her massive sunhat and ignored everything happening in the water.

She still has the hat. She wears it proudly as she struts to the lakefront at Caleb’s side, sunscreen in one hand and a bottle of margarita mix in the other.

“Is there liquor in that?” Caleb asks curiously.

“Pff, no. It’s for Jester.” She chucks the plastic bottle into the air and tries to catch it, but it’s a bit heavier than she was ready for and it slams into the ground. The cap pops off and bright red-pink margarita mix bursts out onto the ground. “Ah, fuck.”

Caleb coughs instead of laughing, but Nott’s suspicious look makes him think it didn’t quite pass muster. “Most of it is still there. Maybe she will not notice if you clean off the top part.” He crouches down and digs the cap out of the leaves. “Nott…”

“ _What_.”

“Why are you doing all this for Jester, anyway?”

“She asked! So I’m getting it, because I’m a good friend.” Nott glares at him from beneath the brim of her straw hat, then hesitates. “Well, she asked me for the sunscreen. And I was the only one who wasn’t already soaking wet. But I thought maybe she would like the margarita mix. It’s sweet. She likes… sweet things.”

The uncertainty in her voice plucks at something in Caleb’s chest. “She does,” he agrees. “I think she will appreciate it, ja. Here.” He passes her the bottle cap and she scrubs it clean of dirt before screwing it carefully back on. There’s still a good three quarters left in the bottle. She gives it a shake and nods, satisfied.

They continue on through the trees, following the little game trail that they’ve slowly widened over the years to a reasonable hard-packed footpath. It’s a bit overgrown—some distant relative of Fjord’s owns the land, but never uses it—and Caleb busies himself with brushing brambles out of the way and holding up whippet-thin branches for Nott to duck under unscathed.

The little trail opens right onto the beach. It’s a mix of fine pebbles and hard sand, thick with clusters of sedge-grass that cling to the edges of the dark water. Up here the leaves fall regularly every autumn, staining the lake a dark steepped-tea color with their tannins, and farther out the blue sky reflects against the surface, like a gentle powder-blue blanket unfurled at a distance. Caleb stands on the shore a minute and gazes out, admiring the blooming water lilies clustered close to shore.

“Hoorayyyy, thank you thank you Nott!” Jester says, skipping through the shallows to meet them. She’s wearing her strappy pink thing from yesterday with a matching bikini skirt that barely covers her ass, with giant reflective sunglasses perched on her horns. It’s only been ten minutes but her freckles are already starting to multiply. “Oh my gosh, you brought drinks too! Aren’t you sweet.”

Nott’s ears flatten at the compliment and she thrusts the sunscreen and margarita mix into Jester’s waiting hands. “Just thought you might like it,” she mutters, and darts back to her blanket, well out of reach of the water. Caleb puts his towel down next to hers and goes to dabble his toes in the water.

“Cay-leb,” Jester sings, “will you help me put this on?” She waves the sunscreen in his direction, making a motion as if to throw it to him.

“Oh. Uh, sure.” He holds his hands out defensively and manages to not drop the bottle when she gives it a gentle underhand toss. “Just your back then?”

“Yes please. I can reach everything else.” She plops down on the end of his towel, presenting her back to him. There’s a little tattoo on the back of her left shoulder that he doesn’t remember seeing before, partially hidden by the crisscross of hot pink straps: an arched doorway with a pointed keystone top, like a door in an old church. The door appears to be open, framed in rambling purple flowers and looking out over a road that winds far into the distance before disappearing between two hills.

“This is new,” Caleb says, tapping it. Then, “Hey! Did you drink last night when I said never have I ever gotten a tattoo?”

Jester hunches her shoulders a bit, turning to rest her chin on her collarbone so she can peer at him from the corner of her eye. “Oh. You can see it.”

“I mean, you’re wearing. Uh. Lingerie, so.”

“It’s not _lingerie_ ,” Jester laughs, shaking her head so that her short corkscrew curls brush her neck prettily. “It’s a sport top. Multipurpose. Ooh, that’s cold!”

“Sorry,” Caleb murmurs. He spreads the sunscreen out along her exposed shoulders and down her arms a bit. “Is it supposed to be a secret then? The tattoo?”

“Not… not really.” She sounds a bit unsure, and it’s so unlike Jester that Caleb feels a twist of alarm in his belly. “I just feel kind of silly explaining it to everybody. You have to promise to not laugh if I tell you.”

Caleb squirts another gob of sunscreen into his hand and rubs his hands together to warm it. “Of course I won’t laugh at you, Jessie. Lean forward.”

She does, and he smears it thickly down her spine. “I got it a few months ago,” she says quietly over her shoulder. The others are all in the water, and Nott is preoccupied with building a little fort in the sand out of sticks, but Caleb leans in closer anyway. “I, um. Gods, this sounds so dumb to say out loud.” She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “I… found religion, I guess.”

A chill works its way down Caleb’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“I—okay, fuck, I don’t mean _that_ kind of religion.” She gives up on the sunscreen and turns to face him, curly head bent toward his. “It’s not really the organized kind. Just, you know, one of the smaller gods. Except he’s not small to _me_. He helped me a lot when I was feeling lonely as a kid, and for a while I thought he was just an imaginary friend, but.” She shrugs. “I never really grew out of him, I guess. And then he started teaching me how to do things!”

Caleb leans away a little bit, eyeing her closely. She still _looks_ like the old familiar Jester: round smiling face, bright purple eyes, a mess of short curly hair. Horns studded with tasteful silver jewelry, a mile away from Molly’s decadent displays. She looks more earnest now than he thinks he’s ever seen her before, but there’s still a flicker of good humor hiding in the dimples in her cheeks. “You’re sure this isn’t like, just a random guy talking to you from outside your window.”

“ _Cay-leb_ , you said you wouldn’t laugh!” She punches his shoulder lightly, but it still hurts. Sometimes he forgets how strong she is under all that softness.

“I’m not laughing, I swear! I just.” He rubs his nose thoughtfully. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Impatience flickers across Jester’s face, but she tamps it down. “I’m _fine_. I know it’s kind of old-fashioned, but it… works for me.”

“What does your mom think?”

Jester looks down and away. Ah. “She doesn’t know. About _him_ , or about the tattoo. So, you know…”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Caleb vows, resting a hand flat on his chest. “Not that I have the _Ruby of the Sea_ on speed-dial, or whatever—”

“Shut up!” She punches him again, hard, but she’s grinning. “Sorry, sorry. I forget you’re a wimp sometimes. So wiry!” She massages his upper arms until he squirms out of reach, laughing. Then she sits back on her heels, fingers wiggling in midair between them. “Do you want to see something the Traveler taught me? I promise it’s _super cool_.”

“Um. Okay.” Caleb sat up, hands in his lap and braced for the worst. Jester’s eyes go wide and silver-lilac, focusing on an invisible spot in the air that Caleb can’t see.

“Okay Traveler,” she whispers. “On the count of three. One. Two—”

“HEY JESTER!” Beauregard’s voice booms out over the lake. “COME TIME ME AND FJORD IN A RACE TO THE ISLAND!”

The glow fades and Jester slumps. “Dammit. Okay, later. When it’s just us. Okay?”

Caleb rubs the back of his neck. “Sure. Whenever you want.”

“Great! Thanks for the sunscreen, Cay!” She jumps to her feet.

“But I didn’t even finish—putting it—and she’s gone.” Caleb sighs, watching as Jester tears across the short strip of sand and crashes into the water, and into Beau’s arms. The slighter woman shrieks and falls back with a tremendous splash, Fjord standing hip-deep and looking on with faint amusement.

 _First Fjord, with his saltwater. And now Jester and her Traveler. So many secrets._ It doesn’t feel good, but there’s no point in dwelling on it now. Caleb pops open the sunscreen again and starts slathering it on his arms, thick enough to turn himself from freckled ivory to sheer, soapy white. It won’t protect him completely from the sun, already blazing down cheerfully from a cloudless blue sky, but it will help. If he keeps his shirt on, and borrows Nott’s hat now and then, he shouldn’t suffer too badly.

“Caleb,” Nott pipes up. She peers at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “What were you and Jester talking about just then?”

Caleb grimaces. “How much did you hear?”

“Uhhhh.” Her large ears twitch in demonstration. “Like, all of it.”

“Right. _Wunderbar_.”

“I won’t say anything,” she says quickly. “I just… feel kinda bad? But also, you were sitting _right there_ … I know I’m invisible sometimes, but like, the hat is kinda hard to miss.”

“You’re not invisible,” Caleb huffs. “I think she was preoccupied. And I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret, or I wouldn’t have asked her in the first place.” He reaches out and tugs gently on the brim of her hat. “Will you come wading with me? Just to our ankles. The water will feel really nice, I promise.”

“Caaaaaleb, _please_ don’t talk to me like I’m a kid. I know I’m the youngest, but still.” Reluctantly, Nott drags herself to her feet and bends over to roll up her dungarees.

“You drink more than the rest of us combined, so your liver is probably the oldest thing here,” Caleb deadpans. Nott sneers.

“Very funny. Smartass.” She tweaks his ear. “Remember, _I’m_ the parental figure in this relationship. Now let’s go.”

“Bossy,” Caleb snarks.

“Fuck you,” Nott shoots back, grinning. She trots to the water and stands at the very edge, where it laps slightly against the shore. There’s a fallen log nearby, wearing a blanket of moss; she puts her hand on the trunk and eases one toe in. Then another.

“Nott!” Molly calls joyfully. “You’re swimming!”

“Bite your tongue!” Nott yells. “Mind your own business, Tealeaf.”

“All right, all right. Y’don’t need to be so testy.” Molly flicks his finger on the surface of the water, sending a few droplets scattering in her direction. They land well away from her, and Nott doesn’t even notice, but Caleb looms a little ways behind her and glares in Molly’s direction. The tiefling puts his hands up in surrender.

“Caleb, help me.” Nott’s voice is terse, which means she’s right on the verge of showing actual fear. Caleb wades out behind her and grabs her other hand.

“I’ve got you. You’re all right.”

Nott takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna put my leg over this log now.”

“Okay. Like a horse?”

“Yeah.” With a death grip around his hand, she swings one leg over the log. Then sits, an inch at a time, until her bum is firmly on its mossy seat. “Thanks,” she says, and doesn’t let go of his hand. The water barely comes up to her ankles, and if she were still standing it would only reach her mid-calf, but it takes her a moment of deep breathing before she lets go and clings to the log instead.

“There you go,” Caleb says. “Would you like Frumpkin here to keep you company?”

“No!” She clears her throat awkwardly. “I mean. I don’t want to knock him into the water or something. And what if he tries to sit on me?”

“He won’t,” Caleb soothes. “He’ll just lay right here with you.” He pats the mossy stretch of log in front of her. “If it bothers you I can take him away again.”

After another moment of pondering, Nott nods agreement. “All right. But be careful!”

Caleb snaps his fingers, and Frumpkin slips between planes to perch tidily on the log. His wide yellows eyes are instantly transfixed on a tiny bug crawling over the moss. He crouches down as if to pounce, then loses interest, turning his gaze instead to Nott, tail swishing idly behind him. He blinks slowly, content.

“There. Everything good?”

“Yeah.” Nott reaches out tentatively and pats Frumpkin between the ears. He tips his head into it and sniffs at her hand. “Yeah, we’re good. You can go swim now.”

Feeling as if he’s been dismissed, Caleb nods and turns to wade deeper into the water.

“Go go go!” Jester shouts, jumping up and down in the shallows farther out. There’s a spit of sand that curls out a bit, forming a natural watering hole that’s perfect for swimming, and she’s on the very end of it, waving her arms as Fjord and Beau plow through the water toward the little island. It hardly deserves the name—just a cluster of rocks that have collected some dirt and brushes and long grass over the years—but it sits on the edge of deeper water that’s great for jumping and diving. Neither swimmer can probably hear her, but they swim for all they’re worth anyway.

“Nearly neck and neck, it looks like,” Caleb says conversationally. He stands a foot or so away from Mollymauk, who is floating on his back in the sun-warmed shallows, apparently disinterested in the race. The tiefling’s tail slaps the water lazily.

“Beau will win,” he says, eyes half-closed.

“Want to bet on that?”

“Absolutely not.” Molly cracks a grin and folds his arms behind his head. _Show-off_. “Hmm? What was that, darling?”

“I said you are a show-off,” Caleb mutters, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Am I? I don’t mean to be.” Molly sounds genuinely puzzled.

“Tieflings are more buoyant than humans, I suppose.”

“Gods, I don’t know. You’re bad at floating, then? I’m surprised I didn’t know that,” Molly says, mostly to himself. He lets his feet drift down to touch bottom and stands upright, water streaming down his chest and arms. “D’you want me to teach you?”

Caleb squints across the water. Fjord has reached the island first after all, and is reaching down to help Beau up onto the rocks. She grabs his hand and pulls him back down into the water with a cackle of laughter. “It seems like a good skill to learn,” he says, pushing the hair out of his eyes. He still feels a bit unsteady on his feet—figuratively speaking—around Molly, after their… spat? Disagreement? Both words feel too strong, but he can feel the tension between them nonetheless, like a little strand of twine bound around his ribcage.

If Molly feels the same, he can’t read it on his face. “C’mon then,” he says, patting the surface of the water like it’s a bed and he’s inviting Caleb to lay upon it. “Face and belly up. Relax, but keep your back arched just a little.”

Caleb reclines as instructed, letting the cool water climb his body and soak into his shirt. The sky swells into view overhead like the ceiling of a grand cathedral, supported by the boughs of a hundred trees, flecked with birdsong. Molly’s hands alight at his spine and shoulders, steadying him in the water.

“You don’t have to hold your breath,” Molly says, quietly amused. “Breathe. It’ll keep you buoyant and relaxed.”

“My feet are sinking,” Caleb remarks.

“So don’t let them. Arch a bit, it’s all right. I’ve got you.”

It’s a lot to concentrate on at once, but Molly holds true to his word and doesn’t let him drift on his own, and gradually Caleb feels the tension in his back and hips unwinding. His jaw unclenches and he squints up at Molly. The septum piercing in his nose winks at Caleb from his perspective as Molly turns his head to watch whatever nonsense is going on over by the island, and the peacock tattoo crawling up his neck is ablaze with sunlit color.

“Hey Jester,” Molly calls. His light touch on Caleb’s back wavers, just a moment, and Caleb goes stiff all over and starts to sink. “Where’s Fjord?”

"On the island,” comes Jester’s voice, but she sounds uncertain.

Caleb flails upright to see for himself. There’s a moment of hindbrain panic, and then his feet touch bottom and Molly grabs onto his arms at the same time, and he’s fine again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Molly said distractedly, “I didn’t mean to let you go.”

“It’s all right.” Caleb trains his eyes toward the island. Beau is silhouetted against the rocks, crouching like she’s looking into the water. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I just realized I hadn’t seen Fjord in a while.”

“Maybe he’s on the other side,” Caleb offers.

“Maybe.” Molly’s fingers unlace from where they’ve been gripping Caleb’s forearms and he chuckles without conviction. “Sorry. Again. I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” He finds he misses the comfort of being held so securely, but he won’t admit it. “I’m going to go out there and see what’s going on.”

“Should I come with you?”

Caleb shakes his head. “Keep an eye on Nott for me, will you? I’ll just be a minute.” He wades deeper, until the water hits his ribs, and dives forward into the water.

Caleb has always been a strong swimmer. His parents used to have a large pond on their property, so large it was nearly a lake, and he has fond memories of wearing arm floaties as he toddled back and forth between his mother and father in the shallow water. At summer camp, he was one of the faster swimmers, beaten only by Fjord in their loosely organized races. He never took proper lessons or learned advanced techniques, but the water had been familiar to him. An old summertime friend.

Swimming isn’t something he does much anymore, for a variety of reasons. There was a time he could barely stand to take a shower, he hated the flow of water over his face so much, but time and practice have shed that temporary phobia into something more manageable. Still, he hasn’t swum this far or this fast in a while. His shirt clings to his body, dragging him down a little, and even though the island isn’t that far, he’s gasping for breath by the time he arrives and pulls himself up onto the rocks.

“Oh hey, Caleb,” Beau says, sounding surprised but not alarmed. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“We realized we haven’t seen Fjord in awhile.” Caleb kneels on the rocks beside her, looking around. It’s clear Fjord’s not on the island, and for all he can tell he’s not in the water, either. “Where the fuck did he go?”

“Down there.” Beau points.

Caleb leans out over the water and peers into it, but the tea-stained color of the lake makes it difficult to see more than a few feet down. Then a bubble rises to the surface. And another. “He’s just sitting down there or what? It’s been like five minutes.”

“Has it really?” Beau seems surprised, but not actively worried. “He said he saw something shining down there and he wanted to find out what it was.”

“He saw something?” Caleb echoes. Doubt strokes cold fingers down the nape of his neck. “But the water’s so dark.”

Beau shrugs. “Guess his mystical orc eyes are better than ours.”

Caleb sinks back into his heels, arms crossed protectively in front of him as he stares at the water. Another bubble surfaces, small and lonely. He looks across at Beau. She’s sitting back on a flat patch of rock, face tipped up to the sun, eyes closed and a vague smile on her face. Her nonchalance would normally calm him, but something feels off about it. Something feels… wrong.

“Beau, I think you should go see if he’s okay.”

“What?” Her eyes barely blink open before sliding shut again, like Frumpkin when he’s refusing to be disturbed from a nap.

“I think you should dive down there and check on Fjord.”

Beau huffs. “Why don’t _you_ , if you’re so worried?”

And that’s when it hits him. Something is _really_ wrong. He snaps his fingers in front of her face and she doesn’t even bat him away. “Beau!” He grabs her bodily by the shoulders and shakes her. “Beau, snap out of it!”

Nothing. She mumbles something incoherent and Caleb jumps to his feet, nearly weeping with frustration. “MOLLY!” he shrieks across the lake. It seems so far away, now: Molly and Jester are stick figures crouching in the sand, poking at something and laughing. The echoes of it travel in weird stuttered staccato-measures across the water, tinny and half-finished. They can’t hear him. _Impossible._

Caleb whirls back to the water. He feels like he might throw up, or faint. His heart slams against his ribs without mercy as he leans out as far as he can. The lake is very deep, so impossibly deep, and so dark. Not even a shadow of movement to mark where Fjord might be.

“All right, Widogast.” With trembling fingers, he begins to peel off his sopping wet shirt. Nothing extra to weigh him down. He spares a thought for Frumpkin, but their connection feels… fuzzy. Like there’s something about the distance or the water that’s interfering with a radio signal, but that’s not possible. That’s not how his magic works.

 _You haven’t had magic in a long time, boy_ , says an unkind voice in the recesses of his mind. _Let him go. He’s beyond your reach, now._

“Fuck off,” Caleb snarls, and dives straight down.

The water is warm for a split-second near the top, and then the icy cold darkness envelopes him. He squints his eyes open just a little and sees nothing but brownish-grey, getting darker as he pushes down, down. A horrible fear opens its maw inside his chest and it takes everything he has not to inhale water.

His fingers meet with sludgy lakebottom: decomposing leaves and pebbles and sloppy mud. There is nothing else.

 _Fjord_ , he screams inside his head. Bubbles burst from his mouth in a cavernous, silent cry. _Where are you?_

Another little stream of bubbles escapes him and he pushes forward, running his fingers through the muck. Weeds cluster around his arms and seem to grab for him like phantom hands and he fights them, writhing, yanking at their roots to propel himself forward. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

(It’s a dream, he thinks. It has to be. But the burn in his lungs and his eyes feels real.)

He needs air, desperately. Just a few more seconds. He reaches out, trying to snap his fingers underwater, but they fumble and the little spark of _something, maybe, anything_ fizzles out, untapped. Then, just when he’s on the verge of succumbing, his hand brushes cool, smooth skin. He shrieks a bit—more precious air lost—and then force himself to touch, to feel the hairless swell of a calf muscle. He can barely make out a hint of greyish-green through the dark water.

Fjord. Caleb _pulls_ , graceless, blazing somehow with renewed strength. Fjord barely stirs, like he’s somehow fallen asleep; weeds have wrapped themselves around his arms and legs, and they’re reluctant to give him up. But Caleb digs his nails in, shoves his heels deep into the muck, and slowly, slowly, they begin to drift surfaceward.

There’s no way they’re going to make it, Caleb thinks, and then there’s a dull explosion from above. Bubbles rush against his face and Yasha is there in the brown and murk, grabbing his arm, grabbing Fjord. Caleb’s lungs are burning. His heart stammers in his chest once. Twice. _Inhale._

They break the surface and Caleb blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back, kids! 
> 
> Pretty much everything about the lake and the campsite is based on my childhood experiences camping in the Adirondacks every summer. If you haven't been, all the water up there is stained a semi-translucent brown that's super pretty, kind of like swimming in a light black tea. 
> 
> The track for this chapter: sea castle by purity ring. As always, find me at erebones on tumblr, usually yelling about Critical Role and keeping it light and positive!


	5. ripple on water from a lonesome drip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang holds an intervention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been like 3 days.... but I felt bad about the cliffie XD I hope you enjoy! Thank you so so much for the lovely feedback, it's been a treat watching everyone scream ;)
> 
> QUICK NOTE before I forget again: this fic would not be possible without the fantastic @losebetter, whose artwork inspired me to finally do the dang thing and start working on this story! (http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/174258951406/) And who also puts up with my constant screaming and need for validation. Cheers friendo, I'd be lost without you. <3

_Three years prior._

Caleb heard the knock on the front door from upstairs. Even buried three blankets deep in bed, tucked into a good book, an icy dread crept down his spine. He put the book aside and pulled the blanket over his head. Tried not to listen. The voices drifted upstairs anyway, through the thin walls.

“I’m sorry, Caleb’s not well enough for visitors,” his mum said, Common strained through her thick Zemnian accent like whey through a sieve.

“Oh, we’re not normal visitors,” said someone else, with such an air of confidence that Caleb’s heart stammered enviously in his chest. The tone was vaguely familiar. A voice he’d heard before, a long time ago. He peeled the covers down again and sat up in bed, head cocked to try and hear better.

“...very kind of you to come by,” his mum was saying. He could hear the polite _fuck off_ so clearly he had to smile. But…

“Oh please, Mrs. Widogast, don’t send us away,” lilted a young woman, sounding genuinely on the verge of tears. Caleb’s heart lurched sideways in his chest. It had been so long… “We’re really really good friends of Caleb’s, I’ve known him practically his whole life, and we’re worried about him! We won’t be loud or cause a fuss, I promise.”

“Contrary to our looks, we’re quite well-behaved,” added the first voice. _Mollymauk. It’s Mollymauk and Jester and…_

“We’ll just break into his room if you shut us out anyway,” snapped a third, impatient, crackling and bright. Nott. Caleb felt his face crack into a smile—fragile and chipped, but gods, it had been so long since he’d heard those voices, since he remembered knowing _how_ to smile.

He was out of bed before he quite knew what he was doing. He looked down at himself belatedly: sweatpants, old tee-shirt rimed with sweat-stains, his hair long and lank over his face. He looked and smelled filthy, there was no way he could—

“I’m sorry.” His mother again, firm and no-nonsense this time. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Caleb is in no state—”

He wasn’t in a state for receiving visitors at all, it was true, but Molly hadn’t been lying. They _weren’t_ just visitors. They were his family.

Caleb limped to his closet and fumbled through several dusty layers of hangers before grabbing onto one of his father’s old work shirts: a soft reddish flannel that was turning pink with age and washing. It hung loosely on his shoulders, but he wrapped it around himself like a jacket and made for the stairs.

There was a small civil protest happening in his mother’s kitchen. The door was half-open still, blocked from closing by Mollymauk’s ramrod-straight back where he was sitting on the old linoleum just inside. Jester was outside but only barely, pleading loudly and repeatedly, tears streaming down her face. Nott stood in front of both of them, silent, but her arms were crossed over her chest and she had that look on her face that Caleb knew so well—that _touch me and I’ll bite your hand off, so don’t even try_ look.

Nott saw him first, working his way down the stairs. She gave a small shriek and ducked under his mother’s arm to run to him. She hit like a runaway car to the chest, but he took it gladly, wrapped his thin arms around her and held on for dear life.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” she said, and squeezed tighter. “Shut up, you have nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault.”

Oh, that’s right. He had emailed her a week or so ago, as suggested by his therapist. _Get in contact with some of your old friends_ , she had said encouragingly. _I’m sure they would love to reconnect._

_They would want nothing to do with me, if they knew what I’d done._

A single raised eyebrow on her face spoke a thousand words. _Would you like to test that theory?_

He’d almost forgotten he’d done it in the haze of medication and sleep, but now he remembered. Oh, now he remembered.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, just breathing in her familiar greasy hair and grabbing heedless fingers.

“I missed you too. We all did,” she said, drawing back just a little. Caleb peered shyly over her shoulder. His mother had made herself scarce and now it was just Molly and Jester standing together in the doorway, staring up at them with wide, hopeful eyes. Staring up at _him._

“I’m not really… erm, suitable for company…” he began, plucking nervously at the hem of his shirt. He could smell himself in the cramped stairwell, unwashed for at least five days now, but Nott grabbed his hand anyway.

“We don’t care. We’re not here to be entertained, Cay. We just. We want to help you.” Her eyes were wide and golden in the dim light, glowing faintly like they used to do, reflected in the firelight. “Please? We love you. We want you to get better.”

Caleb sniffled a bit and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered.

“Well. We beg to differ.” Nott gave his hand a gentle tug. “C’mon. Let’s go say hi to Molly and Jester. They drove an awful long way.”

Slowly, Caleb let himself be pulled downstairs the rest of the way. So much time had passed, he realized. Molly was thinner, taller than he remembered, with long curling hair and piercings in his nose and eyebrows that Caleb didn’t recognize. Jester wasn’t any taller, but she was rounder, soft and plush to look at, and when she stepped forward to hug him it was like sinking into a beautiful duvet.

“We brought Yasha, too,” Jester said, “but we decided she was too scary to bring inside right away. Didn’t want to give your mum the wrong idea.”

Caleb quivered with rusty laughter and buried his face in her shoulder. “Two tieflings and a goblin aren’t the wrong idea?”

A gentle hand was laid against his back— _Mollymauk_ —and he could smell incense and tea and the strawberry perfume Jester was always so fond of but softer, like she’d learned how to apply it without dousing herself. Caleb’s heart twisted in his chest. He’d missed so much.

“You’re with us now,” Jester whispered in his ear. She didn’t seem to care that he was filthy and haggard, barely able to keep himself upright. She didn’t care that he apparently spoke without thinking, unable to stitch together a filter to keep between his brain and his mouth. “You’re gonna be okay, Caleb.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had said that to him, but it was the first time he believed them.

* * *

_Present day._

Caleb wakes up coughing. His nose and throat are on fire, and his limbs feel cold and limp and useless, but he can _breathe_ and that’s a fucking blessing. He forces his eyes open as his chest wracks itself to pieces. The sky is blue, so blue, and has the most beautiful violet eyes—

“Caleb!” Jester cries. “You’re awake! Oh, thank the Traveler…”

He gags and gasps for air, wiping his wet face. His chest aches, a weird dullness in the middle, and when he braces himself on his elbows and looks down, the bare pale skin over his sternum is red and beginning to bruise. “What…?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I had to do mouth to mouth,” Jester whispers. Her eyes are huge and tear-flecked as she wrings her hands together. “I promise I’m trained, I had to learn CPR to be a lifeguard and—”

“Jess. Give him some space.” A slim purple hand grips her shoulder. Molly is behind her, Caleb realizes. They’re all there, in some form or another—Nott on his other side, crouched and silent, Yasha and Beau stand a little further away with their heads together as they peer at him. Molly leans over him, blocking out some of the overwhelming blue. “You feeling okay, Caleb?”

“Fine,” Caleb wheezes. “Or—I will be. What about. Where’s Fjord?”

Jester gnaws nervously on her lower lip. “He’s fine, I think. He’s over there.” She points, and Caleb follows the line of her hand to the curved spit of shoreline that extends a little ways past the watering hole. Fjord sits there in the sand, toes barely in the water and shoulder hunched. It’s hard to tell from this angle, but it looks like he might be crying.

Caleb sits up, a bit painfully. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and leaves his friends gathered on the shore.

He lets his feet grate coarsely against the sand, gives Fjord a chance to hear him coming. Fjord wipes hastily at his face and turns as he draws near. “Cay,” he says. Just that syllable, strained and broken. He looks away again and Caleb crouches at his side. Puts a hand, very carefully, on his back.

“Hey.” Caleb coughs a little to clear his throat. “Would you like to tell me what happened out there?”

Fjord squeezes his eyes shut tight. “I wish I could.”

Caleb lets him have the quiet for a moment. Then, “That’s not really encouraging to hear, Fjord.” He takes care to pronounce his name the way he used to as a little boy, tongue still clumsy with Zemnian: _Fee-yord._ Fjord huffs. It’s almost a laugh. Almost a victory.

“I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry. I’m really—fuck, Caleb, I almost got you _killed_.”

“You almost got _yourself_ killed, which is worse,” Caleb returns. He means it for a joke, but the broken expression on Fjord’s face is possibly the worst thing he’s ever seen.

“Don’t say that,” Fjord begs. “Gods, I just—I wish I could _remember…_ ”

They sit shoulder to shoulder for a little while. The mood on the beach is sombre, and the sky is slowly growing overcast, a light wind picking up to ruffle the surface of the lake. It’s so much darker than it was before. Caleb shivers.

“Hey.” Beau materializes at his side, stone-faced. She drops a dry towel in his lap. “Got this for you.” And she disappears again.

Fjord takes a deep breath and lets it out slow as Caleb pulls the towel around his shoulders. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he admits in a low voice. “I wish I did. I wish I could—explain.”

“Is it to do with… what happened this morning? Choking up saltwater?”

“I think so. I mean, it must be. Weird things keep happening and I just. I get the feeling they’re connected somehow, but I don’t know _how_.” He shakes his head like a dog trying to shed water and rubs his face moodily with both hands. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine.” Caleb prods the tender skin over his chest where Jester administered CPR. His head aches and his sinuses still sting with lakewater, but he’s had worse. He’s had much worse. “How about you?”

“Physically? Fine, I think. Puked up a bunch of water, but. Y’know.” Fjord draws his knees even closer to his chest and leans his head on them, turned aside so he can keep an eye on Caleb. “Beau is really freaked out. She said something happened to her, too.”

Caleb nods, remembering. “She was acting really weird. Like she wasn’t at all worried about you being down there for so long. And…”

“And?” Fjord prompts gently.

“Well. I asked her to go down there. To look for you.” Caleb can still see her lazy, uncaring expression in his mind’s eye. It’s awful. It’s not _her_. “She told me I should go and do it myself if I was so worried.”

There’s a beat of shocked silence. “Fuck.”

“Ja, I know.” Caleb stares at the water lapping innocently near their toes. It’s so innocuous now, and yet a few minutes ago he’d been fighting it for his life. And Fjord’s. “She would never say that to me if she were in her right mind.”

Fjord hums agreement. “I think,” he says slowly, like he’s mulling over every word, “we shouldn’t stay here.”

A chill alights between Caleb’s shoulder blades. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t rightly know. Something is off about… here. About the lake.” Fjord rubs his eyes. “I thought I saw something, which makes no sense, the water is so dark. And then things got weird and… murky, down there. Like I fell asleep or something. And Beau was acting strangely.”

“Molly and Jester,” Caleb pipes up suddenly, remembering the eerie laughter he heard echoing across the lake. “They were worried at first, but then when I was on the island shouting to them for help, they didn’t seem to notice me at all.” He looks to Fjord, whose vibrant green skin is looking more and more ashen by the minute. “Do you think we should cut our trip short?”

“I don’t know,” Fjord says miserably.

Caleb lets himself lean into Fjord a little, his warm bulk a comfort despite the chill infesting Caleb’s bones. “How about we talk to everyone about it at once, ja? We can figure it out together.”

“Okay.” Fjord ruffles his hair like he’s getting ahold of himself, then gets himself to his feet and reaches a hand out for Caleb to do the same. Caleb accepts the hand, and freezes.

“Fjord…”

“What?”

He gestures, wordless. Fjord’s ribs and upper arms are… scarred? Stained? Some strange blue-green bruise winds itself in a long strand around his body, like the weeds at the bottom of the lake had taken root somehow. Left their mark.

“Fuck,” says Fjord blankly.

Caleb couldn’t agree more.

* * *

It’s been awhile since their last Family Meeting.

The first one was an impromptu affair, held in secret behind the ice cream shack in order to determine whether Jester was an acceptable candidate to their little group. Caleb remembers hunkering down, heads together with Fjord and Nott as they discussed the pros and cons, while Jester waited around the corner “keeping watch.” It was a test, really, and she passed with flying colors when she gave a tremendous _ca-caw, ca-caw_ and joined them in pelting down the hill to avoid being caught out of bed by one of the counselors.

This feels like a funeral by comparison. Beau and Nott clear away the bedding and arrange the mattresses in a rough circle, and everyone sits down facing each other. Caleb, still shivering, accepts one of Fjord’s spare hoodies with a grateful nod. It’s warm and soft inside from being in the sun, and he pulls the hood over his wet hair as he waits for the meeting to begin.

Beau clears her throat, then looks around guiltily. “Uh… I’ll start, I guess?”

Usually it’s Fjord who begins these things, but Fjord is sitting crosslegged and hunched over in a massive rainbow-striped towel and staring glumly at the ground. The others shrug or nod their assent and Beau coughs.

“So. This is kind of an intervention, I guess. Because, um, what the fuck was that out there? That just happened?” She clenches her fists a few times, looking around a bit wildly for someone to rescue her.

“The lake is haunted,” Jester says promptly.

“Okay, so that’s one theory.” Beau shoves her hands in her pockets and takes them out again. “Fjord, you want to pitch an idea? Give us something to go on?”

Fjord startles, like he wasn’t expecting to be called on so soon, and gives Caleb a skittish look. “I, um. It’s all kind of a blur, to be honest.”

“How about,” Caleb says slowly, “I say what happened to me, and we can go from there?”

“Sounds great.” Nearly vibrating with relief, Beau reclaims her seat between Jester and Yasha.

Beside him, Nott worms her hand into his borrowed sleeve to hold his hand. Caleb grips it tightly as he recounts the morning’s events: practicing floating with Molly, worrying that Fjord hadn’t been seen in a while, swimming out to the rocks and finding Beau strangely lethargic.

“That was so weird,” Beau pipes up. “It was like being high, but not knowing you’re high?”

“Like taking edibles you didn’t know were edibles?” Molly inquires. There’s a smile curled in the corners of his mouth, but his eyes are flat like the unmoving cadence of his voice. He is staring at Fjord, hard, and his tail flips irritably against the ground behind him. Like Frumpkin when his hackles are up. Fjord doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, pretty much. Except even when I’m high I can like. Muster _some_ critical thinking skills.” Beau hunches into the loop of her arms around her shins, shying away from the weight of everyone’s attention on her. “This wasn’t like that at all.”

“I kind of stopped being worried once Caleb was gone,” Molly says slowly. “I wouldn’t describe it as being… under the influence, exactly. More like I was… procrastinating. Putting the worry aside for later.”

Beau turns to Caleb. “So you’re the catalyst here.”

“The—what?”

“Okay so maybe not the _catalyst_ , but you’re the odd man out. You’re the only one who had full control of his faculties the entire time.”

“I was asleep,” Nott offers, unhelpfully. “And I think you’re all nuts. What, the lake put a spell on everyone but Caleb to try and _drown Fjord_? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Beau snaps her fingers. “That’s it. A spell. Caleb, you’re the only one here with an innate magical talent.”

Caleb shies away on instinct, folding his hands together so tightly his fingers ache. “That… makes no sense.”

“Okay, then what else did you have in mind? Nothing else makes sense!”

“Plenty of things might make sense if we thought about them,” Caleb snaps. “I do not do magic anymore, I don’t see how it could be that.”

A brief silence settles over the camp like a wintry draft. Caleb hunches his shoulders higher against the sidelong glances, grateful for the shield of Fjord’s bulk at his right. Yasha clears her throat.

“I think,” she says quietly, “that perhaps it doesn’t matter too much _what_ happened. Only that it did, and maybe this place isn’t a safe one anymore.”

There’s a mutter of instinctive discontent around the circle, followed by sullen agreement. “We’ve always come here,” Jester says. “But I think Yash is right. Whatever weird thing that was, it’s not a good thing. What if.” She stops herself and glances around, like she’s afraid of speaking some new evil into existence. Caleb gives her a gentle nudge to continue. “What if there _is_ something in the lake. I mean, wild magic still exists. Things we can’t explain or perceive.” Her hand reaches back almost unconsciously and rubs at her shoulder like she has an itch. The same shoulder with the tattoo, Caleb thinks. “Maybe it wants something. Maybe it wants _Fjord_.”

“It can damn well try,” Molly bursts out suddenly. He scrambles to his feet, tugging his thin kimono around his body in a dramatic swirl. “I, for one, don’t intend to let it touch _any_ of my friends.” And he stalks off into the underbrush, leaving a trail of shocked silence behind him like a bridal train.

“O...kay.” Beau swivels her head back to the group. “Molly weirdness aside. What do we wanna do? Fjord?”

Fjord rubs his nose and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I don’t wanna inconvenience the group. But.” He gives a soft, hollow huff of breath that could almost be called a laugh. “I can’t say I’m lookin’ forward to spending a whole week here.”

“Neither am I,” Caleb says. “I was not a very big fan of the water to begin with, and now I cannot say I’ll be setting foot in it ever again if I can help it.”

“Same,” Nott pipes up.

“Same,” Jester says, uncharacteristically quiet. She leans into Yasha’s bare arm pointedly, and Yasha nods as she pulls Jester into an embrace.

“So it is decided. I am amenable to doing what the group would prefer, but I think we should get on the road today. There is a nice bit of wild land about two hours west of here, near Alfield. Lots of pretty walking trails and old caves that are decently shallow and fun to explore.”

Jester’s face brightens. “We can pan for gold!”

“And diamonds!” Nott exclaims.

“I do not think you pan for diamonds,” Caleb says, “but we can certainly try.”

“What about Molly?” Fjord asks. His voice is still guttural and gruff from swallowing lake water, and it simultaneously lifts the hairs on the back of Caleb’s neck and kindles a low warmth in his chest. It’s a very confusing sensation. “We should get his vote.”

“I’ll go find him,” Caleb says when no one else makes a move to volunteer. He pushes the hood back a little and gets to his feet, muscles already starting to ache from the day’s misadventures.

“We’ll start packing,” Beau says. “No point in waiting around. We all know what he’s going to say.”

The conversation fades behind him as Caleb follows the trail in bare feet, choosing each step with care. Overhead, the sun peeks demurely through the trees and casts dancing lights upon the ground. It’s barely mid-morning, Caleb realizes. The whole fiasco had barely taken an hour.

The lake comes into view through the trees, and with it the blistering shouts of someone going completely apeshit in Infernal. Caleb rubs his ears preemptively. This… might actually hurt.

Molly is standing on the shore when Caleb reaches it, kimono swirling around him and feet scuffing great scoops of sand into piles. He’s also shouting. A lot. None of it sounds like any proper language to Caleb’s ears, just coarse, spitfire nonsense punctuated by the occasional dull _sploosh_ of a rock hitting the water.

“And also fuck you!” Molly shouts suddenly in Common. The last rock in his hand skids across the lake and sinks with hardly a sound. Caleb steps a little closer, nearly within reach, and startles back when Molly whirls on him. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“It’s just me!” Caleb blurts, hands out in front of him. “It’s just me, Mollymauk.”

“Fucking hells. How long were you standing there?”

“Just a moment or two.”

“Uh-huh.” Molly slumps like his strings have been cut, leaving him flopping and boneless as a fish. “Sorry about… that. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Freak you out?”

Caleb shakes his head slowly. “What were you… saying?”

“Cursing it out, mostly. I don’t know.” Molly scrubs his face with his hands. “I know it’s mostly superstition but sometimes it feels like I really _could_ do damage like that.”

“Infernal is a powerful language. I don’t think there’s anything _superstitious_ about that.”

Molly gives him a wounded look. “I would never—not _you_ , never you. Not on purpose—”

“I know, Mollymauk.” Caleb does reach out then, taking Molly’s hands away from where they’re scratching at his arms and folding them between his own. “Listen. We are thinking of leaving here. The group, that is. Yasha suggested camping elsewhere.”

“Sounds fucking perfect to me. I don’t like this place anymore.” Molly turns and bares his teeth briefly at the lake. “Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Also, if it _is_ haunted, I definitely super pissed it off just now, so. There’s that.”

Caleb huffs with quiet laughter. “I think the lake is probably more scared than pissed, if it has any good sense.”

“Well it obviously doesn’t. It tried to take _Fjord_.” Molly’s face blanks for a moment, going smooth and childlike with raw fear. Then it’s gone again, pulled over with a smile but clumsily, like pulling a tarp over a Mercedes Benz. “I guess we should go help pack up then,” he says and makes to move around Caleb.

Caleb doesn’t let him go. He tightens his grip instead, watches confusion flutter the curtain Molly has drawn across his face. “Are you all right?”

“All right? Of course I’m all right, I wasn’t the one who _nearly drowned_.”

 _Ah_. “Fjord is fine,” Caleb soothes, ignoring the pang of… _something_ in his chest. “A little upset, but—”

“Ah yes, Fjord.” Molly’s voice has gone flat and unaffected. “The only one of us who works on the sea and can swim like a fish. I’m worried about _him_ more than I’m worried about the guy with the trauma associated with being held underwater.”

Caleb’s stomach twists and sours. He’d been doing _such_ a good job at keeping that little detail out of the forefront of his mind. He lets Molly go, meaning to walk away— _I don’t want to talk about this_ are words he rarely says out loud—but the tiefling moves to stop him, turning their back-and-forth into a strange, clumsy dance across the beach.

“Caleb, wait. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Molly’s kimono flutters in the wind like the wings of a bedraggled butterfly as his hands come up, stall, and return to fold safely against his chest. Out of reach.

“You are not the only one who’s a little freaked out right now,” Caleb bites out. “I am, in fact, a _lot_ freaked out, and I would rather get away from this place than stand here and discuss it.”

Molly’s face falls. “So we’re fighting again, then.”

“Were we fighting before?” Caleb snips. Molly’s flair for the dramatic is sometimes a little bit… self-centered, and he can’t help but want to pick at it, gnawing away at the loose thread just to see how far it will spin out before the whole thing unravels.

“I don’t know.” Molly’s shoulders curl out of their hunch, go straight and uniform. Like he’s preparing to salute. “Fuck me, but this week is off to terrible start, isn’t it.”

This time when he brushes by Caleb, Caleb lets him go. Then he’s alone on the beach. He stands and stares across the water to the little rocky island, now buffeted by small white-tipped wavelets as the wind kicks up. A little further beyond, the trees on the opposite shore sag and twine together. The sun has faded a little in its brightness. Caleb squints and lifts his hand to his eyes to shield out the blue-white scud of clouds, pushing his damp hair out of his face. The lake is still dark. Trimmed in gentle ripples that surge outward from some unknown central point. The water ebbs and flows as he watches, innocent on the surface; but the longer he watches, it almost seems to respirate, in and out, long pulls of gravity like the slow, deep breathing of a sleeping animal.

“Cay.”

Caleb jumps and spins around so fast he nearly falls, hand to his hammering heart. Standing there in dry clothes, holding down her sunhat against the wind, Nott gives him a funny look.

“You okay? We’re almost packed up and ready to go.”

 _How long have I been standing here staring at the water?_ Caleb shivers in spite of Fjord’s borrowed hoodie. He wants to ask, but the words sit heavy on his tongue, unspoken. He finds he doesn’t want to know the answer. “Yeah, I’m ready. C’mon.” He reaches out for her hand and she takes it without question, the way they used to when they were kids.

It’s strange. He doesn’t look back—refuses to give the lake the satisfaction—but as Nott leads the way into the trees, he could almost swear he feels eyes on the back of his neck, watching them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Devil's Spoke by Laura Marling. (I'll be putting together the playlist for this when I hit like, chapter ten. Not long now!)
> 
> As always, find me at erebones on tumblr! sometimes i post snippets of this, the rest of the time I'm just crying about critical role


	6. pushed me up against tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang hits the road, jack. Don't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized, somewhat belatedly, that flashbacks give me the perfect opportunity to explore other points of view. I'll still do Caleb flashbacks once in a while but since he's the POV for the main story it only seems fair to hand the reins over to other folks! Our debut this week: Fa-jordy, in a scene very much inspired by the Parent Trap (aka my childhood).

_12 years prior. Fjord._

“Hold still! Don’t be such a _baby_.”

“I _am_ holding still!” Fjord protested, even though he hadn’t been. He shot Caleb a nervous look from under his overgrown fringe. He really needed a cut, but that required talking to the Head Counselor about it, or even (gods forbid) the _Director_ —plus Caleb liked to put his hands in it sometimes, which felt really nice—so here he was, fidgeting with the hair falling into his eyes and trying very hard not to breathe, or blink, or _think_ too hard about what he was doing.

“You’re doing great,” Caleb soothed earnestly, blinking at him with those big blue eyes from behind his glasses. They were reading glasses, Caleb insisted, but Fjord had noticed he wore them an awful lot lately. Fjord thought they made him look _distinguished_. He blushed and looked at the floor.

“Fjord!” Jester yelped. “If you don’t stop twitching I’m going to stab your eyeball out or something!”

“Do you want _me_ to do it?” Nott groaned from where she was flopped across Jester’s bed, nose buried in a magazine. “My hands are _super_ good at things.”

“Ew, Nott, that sounds kind of…” Jester trailed off, face wrinkled as she stared into space. “ _Skinky-doody_.”

“That’s not a real word,” Nott said in disgust. “Fine, you’re on your own.”

“Dextrous,” Caleb put in softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Fjord could see little red marks where his glasses usually sat, and he wondered if they hurt to wear. Caleb didn’t complain about it, but he wasn’t much of a complainer. “Is the word you want.”

Nott squinted upside-down at him. “Use it in a sentence.”

“Your hands are _dextrous_ because you are good at many things the counselors would probably find alarming, like when you stole gum out of Dolan’s pocket the other day.”

“Or picking the lock of the boy’s cabin so we could sneak in and put shaving foam on Fjord’s face,” Jester offered.

“That was _you_?” Fjord exclaimed, sitting ramrod-straight. “I thought it was my cabin mates!”

“Jester!” Nott complained. “You are the _worst_ at keeping secrets.”

“Excuse you, I am the _best_ at keeping secrets. Okay, Fjord, you have to stop being mad at me now because I am about to stab you with a needle, and if you’re mad you might hate me about it afterward.”

“Hate you _for_ it,” Caleb corrected. He squeezed Fjord’s hand to calm him.

“I won’t hate you afterward.” Fjord took a deep breath and let himself lean into Caleb a little bit. “Okay, just do it. Before my ear falls off from the cold.”

Jester tossed the ice cube over her shoulder and it skittered across the cabin floor, making Nott groan audibly and shift herself in an attempt to recover it. “Lemon?”

“Here.” Caleb put the requested fruit slice into her waiting palm. Fjord’s ear was so cold he could barely feel the tickle of Jester holding the lemon wedge to the back of it.

“Okay, here goes. Deep breath, Fjord.” Jester brandished her needle and grinned, all teeth. Fjord braced himself.

 _Pain_. Hot, stabbing, tearing his ear apart, like it was being cut off his face—

“Ow!”

“Shut up Caleb, you weren’t even the one I was stabbing! Fjord, let go of his hand.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Fjord wheezed, releasing Caleb’s crushed fingers. “Fuck, that hurt!”

Nott cheered. “You said a bad word! _And_ you got your ear pierced by a blue hack in the middle of the woods! Congrats, Fjord, you’ve officially leveled up.”

“Leveled up to _what_?” Fjord wondered, but Jester’s squawk overrode him.

“I am not a hack! I am an _artiste_. Here, watch this.” Deft as anything, Jester whipped the needle out and slipped the earring in, a small golden hoop barely as big around as the tip of Fjord’s pinky finger. He could hear the blood pounding in his ear and his stomach wobbled a bit.

“You were very brave, Fjord,” Caleb told him. He took hold of Fjord’s chin and tilted his head back a little. Fjord tried very hard not to blush. “And you look very handsome with it. Very dashing.”

“Like a pirate!” Jester exclaimed, thumping the mattress with her tail. “Come on Fjord, look in the mirror! Tell me what you think!”

She passed him a small hand mirror, made of silver plate with a pretty floral scroll pattern crawling up the handle. The glass surface was speckled with tarnish, but it did the job. Fjord turned his head this way and that, admiring the glint of gold at the side of his face. His hair didn’t even look half bad, flopping into his face like this. Maybe he would let it grow a little more.

Caleb’s bespectacled face came into view over Fjord’s shoulder, cheeks dimpling. “See? Wasn’t I right?”

“Yeah. It’s great.” He clutched the hand mirror and tried not to think too hard about Caleb’s scrawny, nail-bitten hand resting companionably on his shoulder. “Thanks, Jester.”

“You are very welcome. You ever want me to do the other one, just let me know!”

“I only found the one hoop though, so you’re gonna have to go mismatched,” Nott said apologetically. She had found the ice cube and was brushing it off conscientiously. When she was satisfied, she popped it into her mouth and crunched down. “Okay now do Caleb next!”

“What? Oh, no no no. I am okay without, _danke_.”

“Aw but Cayyyyleb, you would look so good!”

“Caleb’s fine the way he is,” Fjord said gruffly. He passed the mirror back in a fluster as everyone’s eyes turned to him. “I’m getting ice cream, does anyone want anything?”

“I will come with you,” Caleb offered. He was a bit pink at the tips of his ears, and he was smiling at Fjord. Surely that was a good thing.

“Me too, me too!” Jester danced around the room, putting away her ear piercing detritus. “You have to buy me an orange creamsicle in payment, Fjord.”

“Oh… okay.” Fjord patted his pockets, feeling around for loose change. “Come on, then. Let’s go before the PeeWee cabins finish rec time, or there won’t be any ice cream left for anyone.”

* * *

_Present day._

“I call dibs on shotgun!”

Fjord sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Beau…”

“Nope! Too late! You snooze you lose, motherfucker!” Beau crows. She sprints to the passenger side of Fjord’s truck and eschews the door for the window, wriggling in like a worm escaping the early bird’s ire. It takes her a moment of twisting and swearing, but when she’s settled in the seat she pokes her head out and beams. “C’mere, Jester, you can sit on my lap.”

“I have to drive my _own_ car, Beau,” Jester reminds her, but she goes to the door and stands on her tiptoes to give Beau a kiss. “Be good for Fjord and Molly, okay?”

“Actually I’m going to ride with Yasha,” Molly interjects—the first he’s spoken since Caleb and Nott returned to camp. More subdued than usual, he hitches his backpack over his shoulder and drifts toward Stormchaser. “You guys have fun.” And he slips into the camper without waiting for a response.

“Uh.” Beau looks over at Caleb, who is dragging behind the rest. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Caleb smiles blankly, too tired to fake it. He leans against the door and tilts his head. “Do I get one too?”

“A what? A—oh for fuck’s sake. Sap.” Beau tweaks his nose and kisses him very quickly on the cheek, scrunching her nose up afterward to make sure he knows she hated it. (Caleb doesn’t believe it even a little bit.) “You gonna be okay in Jester’s bug, or do you wanna hop in with us?”

“I’ll be okay, thank you.” Caleb looks past her to Fjord, who is sitting straight-backed in the driver’s seat with his fingers tap-tap-tapping the wheel. “Take care of him, please?” he whispers.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure he doesn’t run us off the road,” Beau says loudly, blithe to his token attempt at subtlety. She reaches over the center console and gives Fjord’s bicep a rough pat. “Right buddy?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. We’ll be great.” Fjord nods in Caleb’s direction, but his golden eyes are unfocused like they’re staring into the distance. Caleb wishes desperately he could leave Frumpkin with them, but that wouldn’t exactly be conducive to keeping Fjord breathing.

“All right, Cay-leb!” Jester calls. She slams her trunk shut with more vigor than necessary, and Caleb startles. “Ready to go?”

“Ah, _ja_ , I am ready,” he mumbles. “Nott—?”

“I’m gonna ride with Fjord too,” Nott says quickly, appearing at his side as if he’d snapped his fingers to summon her. “Beau, make room!”

“Oh hells, Nott. Here, there’s room if we fold down the middle seat—”

Caleb lets himself drift away from Fjord’s truck and toward where Jester is waiting in her bubblegum-pink VW bug. She bats the fuzzy dice swinging from the window—novelty d20’s Caleb had found as a “congrats on the car” gift—and toots the horn twice.

“Let’s go!!” she calls through the open window. “I think your backpack will fit if you squeeze it behind your chair.”

“I can put it at my feet.” Caleb settles in the passenger seat, folding up his long legs to that he can wedge his bag at his feet. He holds his breath as he shuts the door—and everything fits, somehow. He isn’t sure how she manages it. Such a tiny car, full of suitcases and lawn chairs and blankets and an extra tent and gods know what else, but she makes it work.

Caleb holds his breath as their little caravan gets underway, half-expecting someone’s engine to go or some other terrible fate to befall them—but no such thing occurs. Yasha’s Stormchaser takes the lead, rumbling through the quiet woods like an enormous placid beast with a lion’s purr growling in its chest; then Jester and Caleb, small and round, already piping out some upbeat pop song that Caleb doesn’t recognize, and Fjord’s Silverado in back. After a minute or two of driving, Caleb can already hear Beau’s choice in music overtaking Jester’s from behind.

He summons Frumpkin, who makes a few irritable noises at having to endure the car ride, but settles into his lap quickly enough. Caleb runs his fingers down Frumpkin’s downy-soft head repeatedly, letting the familiar motion soothe him as the woods filter past in lancet shades of green-gold. To his left, Jester hums along to the radio and occasionally blurts out some cheerful anecdote. It’s all very familiar. Soothing.

Caleb’s eyes sink half-shut as they roll out onto the main road, leaving the dirt track behind. And then further, lulled by the rush of wind and Jester’s sweet singing voice, until he dozes off entirely. It’s a shallow slumber—he feels like he’s floating in the water again, warm and close to shore. Jester’s occasional burbling laughter lifts him up to the surface, but he always sinks again, feeling fuzzy and warm at the edges like he’s being held by someone.

“Caleb, are you asleep?” Jester whispers at one point, stirring him from a murky dream he can’t quite remember: a daydream spun from summer heat and the memory of gentle hands on his skin.

“Mmgh,” he says, eloquently. Frumpkin chirps in his lap and he sits up a little, pushing his hair out of his face. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing!” she says a little too cheerily. “I just wanted to check!”

“Jess—” He breaks off around a jaw-cracking yawn. “You can talk to me if you want. Are you getting tired? Need me to help keep you awake?”

“Oh, well. Only if you want to.” She reaches out with her right hand, keeping the left on the wheel, and plays with the collection of cheap beads hanging off the rearview mirror. She collects them every year at the Pride festival in Nicodranas and keeps them until next year, when she recycles them for fresh ones. Caleb watches the prismatic blur reflecting against the inside of the windshield and reaches out to lace his hand with hers.

“You want to tell me about the Traveler?”

Jester sniffs a bit and focuses on the road. “Well. Yes, okay, since you asked.” She takes a deep breath and lets it go in a _whoosh_. The music was turned down at some point while Caleb slept, so it’s easy to hear her small voice over the hum of the wheels on the road and the vibrating purr of Frumpkin. “I told you that he kept me company, when I was little. Well, now I know how to kind of… call him? Sometimes he shows up, sometimes he doesn’t, but he _usually_ does.”

Caleb settles a little lower in his seat and plays with the tiny amethyst ring on Jester’s thumb, watching the mossy hills drag by with heavy-lidded eyes. “What does he look like?”

“Like a man, I think. It’s hard to tell. He has a hood—like a deep green cloak, very soft. Sometimes...” She huffs a laugh. “Sometimes when I was small he would let me climb into his lap and he would read to me. Or I imagined he did. I don’t really—it’s a weird line, you know? Like, is he a ghost or is he a man?”

“A ghost would be cool.”

“Wouldn’t it?? But I don’t think he’s a ghost. He is very handsome,” she adds, a bit dreamily, and then smothers Caleb’s startled laugh with a frantic, “Ohhh no he can probably hear me right now, I’m so embarrassed!”

“Well if he’s a god, can’t he read your mind anyway?”

“What? No! Don’t be weird. He would never do that without my permission,” Jester says primly. She squeezes his hand and lets it go to wave her fingers in the air. “He is very magical, though, do you want to see what I was going to show you before?”

“Please.”

Jester squints at the road and whispers something under her breath. The air conditioning grinds to an unhappy halt. “Whoa. It worked!” She bounces slightly in her seat and the car rocks a little on its chassis. “That was so cool!”

Caleb stares at the vents. It must be warmer outside now than it was in the woods by the water, because the sun beating down without A/C to fight it off is already starting to bake the car’s interior. “You… turned the air off.”

“Yeah! I can do all sorts of things with that one. Like open a window—or all the windows at once! Or make sounds. Like—” She snaps her fingers.

“Hey Caleb, I think you’re mighty fine,” drawls Fjord’s voice from behind. Caleb spins around, shocked to speechlessness, but the back seat is crammed full of their (Jester’s) stuff. Fjord is still driving his truck behind them—he can just make out a blur of green behind the tinted windshield. Caleb turns back and stares at Jester, open-mouthed.

“How the _fuck_ did you do that?”

Jester shrugs, both hands on the wheel as the A/C kicks on again, stirring her hair around her face. “It’s just magic, I guess. Like _zone of truth_ , but that’s just a party trick, really. I think it must be a tiefling thing.”

Caleb sits back slowly into his seat. The hairs on the back of his neck are all stood up, and Frumpkin’s tail is twitching fiercely against his thigh. “Sorry for startling you, Frump,” he murmurs, patting his familiar on the head. “Jessie…”

“Ja, ja?”

“Cute. Um. So you are like a cleric, then.”

“A cleric?” Jester laughs. “I mean, I guess so? That’s a very old-fashioned word, though. And I don’t think I’m really _that_ kind of person, you know? The stuffy old—” and she puffs out her chest and tucks her chin into it, “oooh doom and gloom, you gotta go to temple, you gotta say your prayers.” She lets the impression go with a saucy shake of her head. “I don’t need to pray. I just _talk_ to him, and sometimes he talks back. That’s all.”

“You know,” Caleb says slowly, “I have read a lot of books—”

“So have _I_ , Caleb, that’s like _all_ you do at college.”

“Ja, I know, but… well, I’ve read histories and things, and you know clerics used to be, um. Healers, a lot? I mean, there were different ways to worship and lots of different gods back then—”

“There still are,” Jester interrupts. Her voice has lost its bubbly edge as she stares ahead through the glass, eyes pinned faithfully to the Stormchaser’s bumper. “I mean, gods are kind of… eternal, aren’t they? Not like people. They’re not _fairies._ They don’t go away just because people stop believing in them or whatever.”

Caleb hums thoughtfully. He is not much for religion himself, but the Empire regulates its pantheon pretty strictly, so he’s not surprised that Jester has found herself a completely unknown, irreverent deity to pay her respects to.

“So is this why you switched majors when you switched schools? II think you should try doing a healing thing,” he suggests. “See if the Traveler will teach you about _that_.”

Jester wrinkles her nose. “Healing doesn’t sound like very much fun.”

“But just think,” Caleb wheedles, “if you can do healing magic, maybe you can find out what’s been going on with Fjord.”

“Ahhhhhh!” Jester’s eyes light up and she reaches out to punch his arm in her excitement. “Caleb you are so super brilliant, I could kiss you!”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh hush, of course I won’t, silly bean. First of all because ew, you’re like my brother basically, and also why would I want to kiss someone who doesn’t want to kiss girls!!” She’s practically hollering by the end of the sentence, and Frumpkin makes an annoyed _mraa_ sound from Caleb’s lap. “Sorry, Frumpy. I’m just _saying_.” Jester cocks her head suddenly, a peculiar light in her eye. “Cayyyyleb.”

Caleb leans his head back against the seat and gives a long, groaning sigh. “ _What_ , Jess?”

“Who do _you_ want to kiss, of everyone in our group!”

Heat blooms under his skin and he fumbles for the A/C. As soon as he twists the knob it sputters back to life, kicking icy air into his face, and he sighs with relief. “I mean, I don’t know. No one in particular.” _Liar._ “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I have _eyes_ , Caleb. You’ve been cuddling up to Fjord since yesterday! And Molly keeps looking at you funny, like he wants to eat you up but he’s not sure he’s allowed.” She leans over the center console, eyes still pinned to the road, and whispers exaggeratedly, “I think you should tell him he’s allowed.”

Caleb forces a weak laugh. “Aren’t you two…”

“Best friends? Yes of course!”

“Jess. You know what I mean.” He rubs his nose, trying to hide the nervous smile on his face from her razor-sharp periphery. “It’s just confusing. All of you… together? And not?”

“It’s not confusing at all!” Jester insists. She holds up a finger. “Beau and I are girlfriends.” Another finger. “Beau has a crush on Yasha, and frankly so do I, those muscles, _whoof_ , but she’s kind of a loner, you know, so we are giving her some space and just admiring the view.” A third finger. “Molly and I are friends and sometimes we screw each other silly, just us. Beau is not a fan of boys. But she and Molly are friends too, even though they pretend to bicker.” Her thumb pops up. “And I think Nott _mayyyybe hasacrushonme_ but I don’t know and do not tell me okay! I know she’s not so much into the sex thing, so I am happy to just be her very good friend and maybe hold hands sometimes, maybe, if she wants.”

Caleb blinks rapidly, trying to process this boatload of information. “Um. Wow. And… what about Fjord?”

“Ohhhh, Fjord.” Jester’s voice goes wistful and she taps her bejewelled fingers against the steering wheel. “He is very nice but he is just… hard to read, you know.”

“Hard to read? For _you_ , Jester the All-Seeing?”

She scoffs and swats at him loosely, barely connecting. “Shut up. I’m really not.”

“Okay, maybe not _All_ -Seeing. But you and Fjord are super close—or you were, at least.” Caleb rubs nervously at the bridge of his nose. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Jester says slowly. “I just… I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, moving away for college and everything, but does Fjord seem… distant, lately?”

Caleb nods slowly. “I don’t think it is just you. I thought it was _me_ , actually, because. You know. I, er, sort of fell off the map for a little while. And everything moved on without me, and I don’t want to make assumptions…”

“What sorts of assumptions?”

“Whether people…” He trails off, picking at the outer seam of his jeans. He can’t remember where he packed his fidget spinner—he hadn’t thought to need it on this trip, or at least not so soon. “Like me.”

Jester actually takes her foot off the gas, she’s so surprised. She whips around to stare at him, then back to the road, then back to him. “ _What_. Caleb Widogast! What! On earth!”

“I don’t know!” Caleb exclaims. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I just. I feel awkward, you know, I have always been awkward but now sometimes it’s like—things stutter around me, a little joke or a little back and forth that I didn’t expect, and everyone else is already in on it. I don’t mean—I know it’s not on _purpose_ —”

“Caleb. You are one of my best friends, okay?” She reaches out and grabs his hand, stills his fingers by knotting them with her own. He clings to her and watches the road flash by. “I love you. We all love you. I know you’re still… um, dealing with shit. But we are here for you. Okay?”

He smiles, though it’s a bit wobbly around the edges, and squeezes her hand. “Okay.”

“Okay. Good.” She sighs and shakes her head. “But back to what you were saying before. Yeah. Fjord and I were really close, not like—not like _that_ , not like Molly and I, but you know. Very good friends. But lately…”

“Maybe he fell off the map, too,” Caleb says softly.

It’s a terrible thought. He turns a bit in his seat to look out the back window. Fjord’s truck is still there, a healthy distance back—he can see Beau’s feet sticking out the passenger side window, and Fjord’s arm hanging out the other like he’s letting the breeze filter through his fingers. His chest grows tight and he turns back to face the front, stroking Frumpkin’s soft tail-fluff.

“Well.” Jester elbows him gently in the side. “We have a few weeks to bring him back, don’t we?”

“Ja.” Caleb tips his head back against the seat and smiles, watching as the Stormchaser trundles on ahead of them. “Lucky for him we have a lot of practice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on the Traveler and stuff. Jester calls "zone of truth" a "party trick" in this chapter, associating it with her tiefling heritage. This is what we call an unreliable narrator. I'm still working out the kinks of how "religious" magic works in this universe, but for now we'll say that Jester is still learning the ropes along with me. ;)
> 
> The track for this chapter: Help me Run Away by St. Lucia.


	7. if we've got something to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang plans a road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished chapter NEIN today so I figured I'd update. Staying two chapters ahead feels good, feels organic.

_Ten years prior. Beau._

“Over here! I’m open! I said I’m _open_ , dimwit!”

The ball sailed past Beau, at least three feet over her head, and she ground to a halt in the middle of the footie pitch, hands on her hips and breath heaving in her chest. Sweat stung her eyes and she wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Are you _blind_?” she hollered when she had the breath for it. “I said I was open!”

“Jump higher next time!” Bosun shouted back, laughing as he trotted back to the other end of the pitch.

Beau clenched her fists and fumed. For a second she thought about running after him and kicking his stupid nutsack into his stupid body. But then she sighed and let her arms unwind. It was pointless. He’d just be back at it tomorrow, whether or not she got toilet cleaning duty. She turned on her heel and trotted back to the goal. No chance in hell was she walking off the pitch yet—she still had half an hour of free time to kill.

“Boys are stupid,” she announced to no one in particular. No one was close enough to hear, but it made her feel better.

She blocked the next few from coming in, and that helped defuse the angry energy bubbling inside her like a bad science experiment. It was hot as balls out here, though, and she hadn’t thought to bring a water bottle, so by the end of the allotted hour she was drenched in sweat and feeling a little dizzy. She reached up the back of her shirt with one hand and tugged at her stupid training bra. It snapped back wetly against her shoulder blades. Blech. Horrible.

“Hey, good game.” Fjord jogged up and offered her a hand and a friendly slap on the back.

“You too, man.” Beau couldn’t even remember which team had won, honestly. She gave the finger to the back of Bo’s head as he jogged off the field with the rest of their teammates, laughing and roughhousing in spite of the heat. She had no proof, but it felt weirdly like they were laughing at _her._

Fjord turned to follow her gaze. “Ignore them,” he said kindly. “They’re jerks.”

“I _know_ they’re jerks. One of these days I’m gonna be a jerk right back, see how they like it.” She cracked her knuckles. It almost made her feel better. “C’mon, I’m literally gonna die of thirst if I don’t get some lemonade _right now_.”

Fjord’s booming laugh cracked a little bit, but Beau pretended not to hear it. She was a jerk, but she wasn’t _that_ much of a jerk. “All right. I could go for some lemonade. D’you think Gustav will let us get some before the mess opens for dinner?”

“Dude, you’re like his favorite kid, he’ll give you anything you ask for.” She elbowed him hard in the side just to hear him yelp. “Why do you think I asked you to come?”

“Tsk. Trying to score free drinks off of me?”

“Yes, obviously. Keep up.” She jogged a few paces ahead and then thought better of it when her head began to swim. “Ugh. Maybe I should just go sit in the lake for an hour before dinner. It’s so fuuuuucking hot.”

Fjord gave her a sideways glance, but didn’t say anything.

“ _What_? Oh, sorry, should I not have said a bad word in front of you? Are you like...” She straightened her back and mimed securing a tie around her neck, a little gesture she’d seen her father perform a hundred times when he was frustrated with her and trying not to show it.

“Like what?” Fjord asked, but he was grinning. “Nah, I don’t care. I try not to, just because there’s usually kids around, but. Whatever.”

They walked the rest of the way to the mess hall in companionable silence. Beau liked that about Fjord. Jester was sweet and all, but it was nice sometimes to just… _exist._ Not have to carry on a conversation about every random thing under the sun. Caleb was like that too, mostly, unless you accidentally brought up one of the many esoteric subjects he had recently (or ever) read about, and then all bets were off.

(That was a lie. She had placed a bet with Fjord once that Caleb would keep going even if everyone left the room, and she’d _won._ She had a recording to prove it: ten minutes of Caleb mumbling on about some theory or other. Still didn’t know why Nott had a tiny portable tape recorder, but best not to ask questions.)

When they got to the mess, Gustav was nowhere to be found. Instead, Toya was sitting on the counter, deftly coring a big bowl of apples with a very sharp knife while Mollymauk stood nearby, rolling out dough.

“Oh!” Toya said when they came in, beaming and waving her knife. “Hello! Sorry if you’re looking for Gus, he stepped out for a bit.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Fjord said politely, giving Toya a short bow. The little girl laughed, delighted, and Beau rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the soda machine. “We’re just here for a bit of refreshment if that’s okay with you, Miss Toya. It’s mighty hot outside.”

Beau was reaching for a cup when a rolling pin came down hard on the back of her hand. “Ow, fuck! What the hell, Molly?”

“Beau!” Fjord reproached. “Language.”

Beau scowled, but forced a smile in Toya’s direction. The little girl hardly seemed shellshocked, but she muttered a brief, “Sorry, kid,” anyway. “Look,” she said to Molly, who was watching her disapprovingly with his arms folded over his chest and a smudge of flour on his nose. “I’m thirsty as ba—I’m just really thirsty, okay? Like, sweating my ass—my butt off, might pass out if I don’t drink something thirsty. Are you really gonna make me go to the nurse or can I get a drink?”

Molly huffed, but stood down, returning the rolling pin to the stainless steel countertop.

“Use your words, Molly,” Toya piped up suddenly. Beau gave her a flat look.

“Kinda rude, isn’t it?”

“She’s right,” said a rusty voice. Beau turned around so hard her feet nearly flew out from under her. Molly was watching her closely, a little smirk flirting with the dimple in his left cheek. “I’m sorry I hit you, Beau. That was uncalled for.”

“ _You’re_ uncalled for,” Beau snapped back automatically. Fjord coughed, and she covered her face with one hand. “Fuck. I mean—shit. Sorry. I’m _sorry_ , I just wasn’t expecting—” She stopped and pointed a finger at him. “ _How long have you been able to do that_?”

Molly gave a loose shrug and spun the rolling pin in his hands like it was a trick sword. “A while. Just didn’t feel like it.” He gave Toya a private little smile, fond and so fucking sincere it made Beau’s teeth ache. “Toya has been practicing with me.”

Beau glanced over at Fjord. He seemed just as shocked as Beau was by Molly’s voice. Hearing it in the first place was practically a miracle. She’d known him for over a month by this point, and never a peep out of him, just sidelong glances and private smirks like he was judging everyone around him. It annoyed the piss out of her, frankly, but it was hard to be annoyed _now_ , with his little lilting cadence and the huskiness of disuse still clinging to his consonants.

“Does anyone else know, or is it like. A big secret?”

Molly pursed his lips. “Not really a secret. I just don’t want it to be, you know. A _thing_.”

Beau nodded. “I get it. Fine. I won’t tell anyone— _if_ you let me get some lemonade.”

“ _Beau_ ,” Fjord protested, but it was half-hearted. Toya stifled a giggle.

Beau stared Molly down, eye to eye. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

Molly smirked. “All right, Beauregard, you win this round.” He pointed his rolling pin at her, and little sifts of flour dusted to the floor in soft clouds. “But be warned—next time I won’t be so lenient.”

* * *

_Present day._

Caleb’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out with only a little bit of complaining from Frumpkin. It’s from Molly’s phone to the group chat.

**[We’re here !! everybody get ready to rock’n’roll xx]**

“Already?” Caleb blurts as they begin to slow, too. A sturdy wooden sign at the side of the road indicates that they have crossed over into Mineshaft State Park, property of the Empire and under the care of the citizenry of Alfield.

“Heh. Mine _shaft_ ,” Jester snickers. “Good pick Yash.”

Caleb rolls down the window and leans out, breathing in the fresh summer-straw smell of the rolling hills. There are no forests here, just the occasional outcropping of trees and a calm, swift-moving river that cuts through the landscape and burbles beneath them as they pass over a bridge toward the check-in booth. The Stormchaser has already parked herself in the guest lot. Molly and Nott are disembarking as Jester rolls her bug to a stop, followed by Yasha, who scruffs Molly on the head and walks over to the Welcome Center to check in.

“Here we are!” Jester says brightly, putting the car in park. She scritches Frumpkin lightly behind the ears. “Hey, Caleb…”

“Ja?”

“Maybe don’t say anything to Fjord about what we talked about?” she says, a little uncertainly. “He is so proud, you know, I don’t want him to think we are, like, _conspiring_ against him or something.”

“No, no, of course not.”

Caleb loops Frumpkin over his shoulders like a scarf and kisses his little pink nose as Fjord and Beau pull up next door, still blaring some god-awful twangy country music. Fjord looks a bit tired, but he’s laughing at something Beau has just said, and it looks good on him. Looks natural. The little gold hoop in his ear glints as he hops out of the truck and comes over to Jester’s car, hands in his back pockets.

“Did y’all survive in there? Beau and I were taking bets about how long it would take before you swerved off the road.”

Jester makes shocked and aggrieved noises, and Caleb laughs into Frumpkin’s furry tummy. “We are perfectly well, Fjord, thank you for inquiring.” He plucks at the door handle and Fjord backs away, swinging it open for him. “ _Danke_. We were just… caught up in conversation, I suppose.”

“Musta been some conversation.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck and backs up a few paces, nose wrinkling. “Sorry…”

“Oh, sorry, Fjord.” Caleb hesitates, on the cusp of sending Frumpkin back to his home plane. “I think I will keep him around for now, if you don’t mind. He likes the fresh air after being in the car for so long.” _And I like having him with me, purring on the back of my neck so that I don’t think too hard about what happened this morning and freak the fuck out._

Fjord nods slowly. “No problem. I’ll go see if Yasha needs a hand.”

Caleb watches him trot off to the Welcome Center and huffs. “Well that went great.”

Jester slips in beside him, tail around his waist and arm jostling his. “It’s okay, Caleb. He’s looking better, isn’t he? I think it was a good idea to get away from that lake.”

Caleb shivers a little. “Yeah, I think so too.” He blows out a heavy sigh, watching Molly and Beau meet in the middle of the parking lot and immediately start to bicker about campsites and tents and fire pit placement. The more things change….

“Hey Caleb.” Nott trots up, sunhat traded for one of Yasha’s baseball caps. “Molly asked me to give you this.” She holds her hand out and he opens his instinctively. A little piece of paper falls into his palm, folded up into a square. He catches a glimpse of scribbled purple writing and bites back a smile.

“Thanks, Nott.”

“No problem.” She squinted at him suspiciously. “It’s not a love note, is it?”

Caleb scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. No, it’s not a love note.”

Jester elbows him. “Seeee? I’m not the only one who thinks—” She stops talking abruptly when Caleb gives her a _look._ She sighs hugely. “Never miiiind.”

“Never mind _what_?” Nott demands, even as Jester loops their arms together and leads her away from Caleb.

“It’s nothing, nothing. None of our business if they want to play the _pining_ game,” Jester is saying as they walk away, but Caleb has already tuned her out. He looks to the piece of paper in his hand. It’s been folded in such a way that he can only see two words written on it in purple gel pen, sloppily cursive.

_[to you?]_

To you. A question. Caleb thinks he has a good idea of the answer. He goes back to Jester’s car and rummages through the glove compartment until he finds a pen. It’s pink and glittery, with a big fluffy faux feather on the end, but it will do.

He puts pen to paper, just below _[to you?]_ and writes, carefully, _[Find me in the]_. And stops. Find me… where? He’s right here. Molly is right there. He peeks over the roof of the car and watches Molly drape himself over Jester’s shoulders. Every angle of his body is carefully curated to be carefree, unconcerned. But Caleb knows him too well. Knows that twitch of his tail that says _I’m nervous._

Caleb flips the folded paper over to the next section and writes _[outhouse]_ in bold print, snickering under his breath. Then he goes to join his friends, tucking the paper into his pocket for later.

Actually having to purchase camping passes is a little more expensive than anyone was prepared for, so Yasha arranges two adjacent camping sites for one night and suggests another Family Meeting to discuss it further. There are picnic benches by the Welcome Center so they spread out sliced bread and peanut butter and cheese and have a small sandwich feast while they debate the pros and cons of forking over the cash.

“They have wifi,” Jester points out through a mouthful of cheese. “ _And_ running water.”

“Yeah, and in two more days it’ll be Friday, and the place will be swarming with little tykes and their longsuffering parents,” Molly complains. “That is _so_ _far_ from being my jam.”

“If running water is your poison, the Stormchaser _does_ have a shower and a toilet. A compost toilet, but still.” Yasha delicately slices a cucumber into paper-thin rounds with her oversized jackknife and passes them around. “There are other parks, too, this was just the closest.”

“Alfield is so small,” Beau says. “If we wanted to see a movie or something, or just go into town and hang out, there’s not really much to do. At least Trostenwald had breweries.”

“Trostenwald is old hat by now,” Caleb chimes in quickly, seeing Fjord’s withdrawn face fall a little further. “We go there every summer. Maybe we should try somewhere new. Yasha’s been everywhere, she can recommend the good places.”

Yasha smiles faintly. “I think this camp will be okay for tonight, maybe one more if we’re feeling lazy. We can take the extra time to find our next spot.”

“Ooh, like a road trip!” Jester says, clapping her hands. “I’ve always wanted to do one.”

“Road trips are expensive,” Nott warns, “but they can be fun, with the right people.”

Molly spreads his hands. “Are we not _the right people_?”

“If anyone else is, I don’t know them.” Nott shrugs and pops the cap on her flask, taking a shallow swig. “I’ll chip in for gas money. Don’t fuckin’ know how to drive, but I think we’ll survive with what we’ve got.”

“I can help drive,” Caleb says quietly, “but I don’t have a lot of extra cash for gas money.”

Yasha waves a hand. “It’s all right, I get a pretty decent cash flow from corporate sponsors on my social media. And Molly can ghostwrite a blog or two for extra dough if need be.”

Molly wiggles his fingers and eyebrows simultaneously. “I am ready to prostrate myself on the internet for extra cash at any time, you know this about me.”

Beau scoffs, but she’s grinning. “I’m poor as fuck, but I can drive.”

“I can call my Mom tonight and ask for some more money!” Jester chirps. “Ooh, please say we can do a road trip! It would be sooooo much fun.”

Caleb reaches under the table with his foot and nudges Fjord gently. “What do you think, Fjord?”

Fjord glances around the table, looking almost bashful at suddenly being the center of attention. “I mean, I’m all for it. But where are we goin’? Just driving and seeing where the road takes us?”

“We can,” Yasha says agreeably. “Nothing wrong with a _little_ bit of forethought, though. Wait here.”

She swings her leg over the bench and goes to her Dodge Commander. After a minute or two of suspenseful waiting, she returns, a giant folded-up map under one arm. She slaps it down onto the table. It’s clearly seen lots of use, its creases turning soft and clothy with age. A few of the major Wildemount cities are circled in red pen.

“These are no-goes,” she says, tapping the places in question, “don’t ask why. But anywhere else is fair game. The best camping spots I’ve highlighted in yellow.”

Everyone moves at once, standing up and leaning their heads together over the table for a better view.

“Hupperdook!” Jester shouts joyfully in Caleb’s ear. “That’s such a funny name, we _have_ to go there.”

“I’ve never been,” Beau says from his other side, a touch cagily, “but I’ve got friends who have. They say it’s a pretty cool place. Party town.”

“Then we absolutely _must_ go,” Molly decides.

“What about Zadash?” Nott asks, leaning closer to tap the little star on the map. “Isn’t it the second biggest city in the Empire?”

“Second only to Rexxentrum,” Caleb agrees softly. Hopefully no one will want to go in that direction; if they do, he’ll gently steer them away. “But that is the capital, so. Makes sense.”

“We’re not too far from Zadash, actually.” Fjord leans back again, making more room for Nott to crawl _onto_ the table and put her nose up against the tiny smushed-together letters, the spiderweb of roads and highways that spreads across the page like crackling glass. Her little tail swishes behind her and Caleb catches it in one hand, lets it curl playfully around his wrist.

“Zadash is cool,” Beau says casually, with the weight of a hundred untold stories sitting heavy on those four syllables. Caleb raises his eyebrows at her and she shrugs, defensive. “It is. A few places I wouldn’t really want to hang out at, but I don’t think they’re our speed anyway.”

“I’m in.” Molly crosses his arms and stares down at the map, crimson eyes bright with excitement. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been on the road. I’ve been craving it. No offense, Fjord.”

Fjord cracks a half-smile. “None taken.” He shrugs. “I’m between jobs at the moment. Don’t know whether my application to school was accepted, but probably not, and I’d rather keep busy than bumming around at home.”

“I am free too as well!” Jester shouts. “I have two months before I have to go back to school!”

“Two months?” Caleb asks. “That’s a long time to be on the road.”

“We don’t _have_ to do it for two whole months. I’m just saying, there’s a deadline. For me.” She fidgets with the edge of the map, taking great care not to tear it any more than it already is. “You have some time before you have to go back, right Caleb?”

Caleb nods slowly. “Technically I only have to stop in to see my advisor in the beginning of the semester and then I’m on my own for research and things.” He shivers a little, anticipating the rows and rows of books that will be made available to him when he begins working on his thesis. The monks of the Cobalt Soul have hundreds of thousands of years of recorded history right at their fingertips, and soon so will he. But for now… “I want to do it. A road trip, I mean. It feels like… a last big hurrah.”

Fjord frowns a little. “Before what?”

“Before…” Caleb trails off again. How to say to them, his dearest friends, his _family_ , that this feels like the edge of a crumbling cliff? The end of an era?

Jester is beginning school again after switching from Nicodranas University to MCU. Fjord, in spite of his bluster, has hopes of the same. Beau has felt more distant to him in the last year or so, and this strange, back-and-forth with Molly feels like shifting sands beneath his feet. Yasha is, well, Yasha. They have a little in common, but her tethers to their group have been thinning for years. And Nott. Striking out on her own after so long hiding in his shadow.

“Nevermind,” Caleb says, looking down at the map. “I just—soon we will all be very busy again, so it will be nice to take some extra time. For us.”

“Agreed.” Yasha puts her hand down in the center of the map, over Zadash. Caleb rests his over hers. A half-second later, Nott puts down her own small hand, and then Molly, and Fjord, and Jester, and Beau on top to seal the deal.

“Tomorrow, we plan!” Jester declares, grinning around the table. “And right now I think we should celebrate!”

“Oh dear,” Molly purrs, “however shall we do that?”

“With drinks, of course!” She grabs Beau’s hand and kisses the back of it before hopping off the bench and spinning place, sending her bright blue hibiscus-print shawl swirling around her. “Let’s go park and make camp and go drunk-exploring!”

The rest of them share a single, universal look that is hard to describe, but that Caleb has secretly dubbed in his own mind _what Jester wants, Jester gets._ None of them are particularly mad about it.

* * *

“And put the cooler over here, so someone can sit on it if they want. Perfect.”

“Hey Yash, you’re pretty good at this.” Beau stands with her hands on her hips and her shoulders cocked a little, like she’s trying to flex without looking like she’s flexing. Caleb swats her from behind. “Yowch!”

“You want to help me move this or not, Muscles?”

“Yeah all right, Squishy.” She grabs the other handle of the cooler—packed with ice and beer and enough Smirnoffs to get a whole sorority wasted—and they haul it together to the edge of the firepit. “That look okay?”

Yasha looms, considering. “A bit to the left.” She nudges it with her foot before either of them can obey, and gives a satisfied nod. “Acceptable.”

Beau tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and watches her go with a longing sigh. “Damn.”

Caleb snorts. “You like being ordered around, huh?”

“That obvious?” She grins at him with all her teeth. “Don’t look so horrified. I promise, it’s totally normal.”

“I don’t know if I think of _you_ as the metric for normal, Beauregard. Hey! Don’t hit me, I’m squishy, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She socks him lightly on the shoulder, barely enough to graze him, and ruffles his hair. Damn her for being such a beanpole. They could stand back to back and he still wouldn’t be sure who was the taller between them. “Oh hey, before I forget. This is for you.” She slipped an innocuous square of paper in his hand. “Don’t tell me—I don’t want to know.”

He glances down. It’s the same note as before, returned to him after he cajoled Nott into playing courier again. “This is the last time,” she told him sourly, though her mouth was twitching. “Then get someone else to ferry your dirty letters.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, but Beau has already walked off to help Jester with something. He drops to sit on the cooler lid and looks at the next section of paper.

_[hear me]_

Caleb sucks in a breath. He feels bad suddenly for making his last word _outhouse_. Molly is obviously trying to reach out to him in a way that’s familiar. Well-worn and well-trod, like the soft creases that fold through Yasha’s map of the continent. He reaches into his pocket for a stub of pencil. It’ll do.

_[tell you that it’s going to be okay.]_

The pencil is difficult to write with, and he barely manages to squeeze the last few words on the square inch or so of real estate. He folds the paper up securely and glances around the campsite.

They’re almost done with setup. It was decided that they would stay for two nights, with one whole day in the middle to explore and dick around. The day after, they’ll set out for Zadash bright and early, stopping at one of the cheap KOE’s along the way. Since they have two nights to kill, Jester declared that decorations were in order, and now it looks like a proper little home away from home: the Stormchaser with her tarp unfurled and globes of fairy lights strung along her frame, Fjord’s truck making up the other third of the triangle with Jester’s bug tucked against its side like a chick taking shelter beneath its mother’s wing. Across the firepit are the tents, set up side by side with little rugs in front to keep their shoes. There’s no rain in the forecast, and Caleb hopes it stays that way. They have a perfect little site set up in the midst of the rolling grassy hills, and it would be shame to have to pick up all their sprawled-out detritus in the event of a shower.

Caleb looks around for his friends. Beau and Yasha have disappeared inside the Stormchaser—he can hear Beau loudly complimenting Yasha’s cooking skills through the thin walls. Jester has made a nest for herself in the grass just past the tents, with her air mattress and blankets laid out for her to nap on. Her sunglasses are down but he can tell she’s asleep, mouth gently open and tail-tip twitching against the mattress as she dreams. Nott is on her stomach at Jester’s side, skimming through her phone.

Fjord and Molly are nowhere to be seen, but after a few minutes of sitting by the cold fire pit he hears their voices: one low and rumbling, the other bright, rising and falling in a quickened tempo. He turns to watch as they come around the Stormchaser’s edge bearing the fruits of their labors. Fjord, a cord of firewood in his arms, gives Caleb an awkward little nod and begins to lay down kindling in the ring of stones provided by the camp. Of the two of them, Molly with his freshly purchased alcohol seems the safer option, so Caleb gets up and drifts in his direction.

“I have something for you,” he says, watching Molly set everything up on the spindle-legged card table resting against the Stormchaser’s bulk.

“Ooh, a present? For me?”

“Well, you started it. But I finished it, I think. I hope.” He cuts off the rest of the awful stammering that wants to fall out and thrusts the square of paper at Mollymauk. “Here.”

Molly drops the sparkle and accepts it. His nails have been painted since the morning, Caleb notes, a pretty seafoam green that is just dark enough not to clash terribly with his pale lavender skin. The knobbly hand-knit cardigan hanging loose and aquamarine from his shoulders might have something to do with it, but Caleb’s not a fashion expert.

“Do you want me to—I mean, should I read it?” Molly asks quietly. His thumb plays with the edge of the paper folds and Caleb is strangely transfixed by it.

“Go ahead. I figured I would, ah, give up the pretense.” He half-smiles and hopes it’s enough to smooth things over. “Stop making our friends play go-between.”

“Probably a good idea.” Molly thumbs the paper open and reads silently. His eyes flit over and back a few times, like he’s committing it to memory, or maybe trying to make sense of the nonsense. He smiles. “It’s a pretty good one.”

“Is it? It seemed like a bit of a run-on sentence, that last part.”

“No, it’s good. It’s poetry, poetry doesn’t have to… make sense. Grammatically.” Molly huffs and lowers his face into his hand like he’s trying to hide. “This would be easier if I was drunk.”

“But not half as much fun,” Caleb wheedles.

“Pff. Maybe you’re right.” Molly glances at him nervously and clears his throat. “How… how can I apologize to you? Find me in the outhouse,” he breaks off to smile, sharp white incisors pressing against his tongue, “screaming at someone who can’t hear me tell you it’s going to be okay.” He looks at the unfolded paper for a little while, brow furrowing. “I can’t tell if this is… good or bad.”

“I was trying for good.” Caleb fidgets. “I was trying for funny in the middle there, I think it sort of… knocked it off course. I’m sorry.”

“No, please.” Molly reaches out and offers his hand. Caleb takes it. “We’re out of practice. I don’t think we’ve played exquisite corpse since last summer.”

“Jester was trying to get a game started in the group text but it didn’t really carry over.”

Molly takes a breath. “I suppose this is the part where I apologize for real.”

“If you want to. I mean. I don’t know what you want to apologize _for_ , really. We were all tense this morning.”

“I was snappish with you all day,” Molly says, each word strangely isolated like he’s picking them one at a time from a list. He is trying. So hard. It makes Caleb’s chest feel warm and fuzzy to see it. “Even before… Fjord. For no good reason.”

Caleb shrugs. “Sometimes you’re a little bitchy. So are we all.”

“Hmm, yes. But I don’t like making my boy unhappy. Maybe I’m just not used to being in a crowd again—but that’s just a silly excuse, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Caleb gestures to the campsite with his free hand. “You call this a crowd?”

“Comparatively.” Molly smiles. “But it’s good company. I’ll do better.”

“We are all trying to be that, I think. Better.” From inside the RV comes a clatter and a tumble of laughter from Beau. Caleb shies instinctively, releasing Molly’s hand. “Um.”

Molly turns aside a little, halfway toward his makeshift minibar. “It looks like Fjord might need some help with the fire,” he says briskly, tail lashing nervously against his legs. It’s a strange tell—Molly is so rarely nervous around any of them, and Caleb isn’t sure what to make of it. The tiefling tucks their shared poem into the front of his shirt, where it remains only by virtue of the garment’s snug fit. “Thank you,” he adds, so quiet Caleb barely hears.

“Ja, of course.” On instinct, Caleb reaches out and lets his hand graze Molly’s spine gently. The tip of Molly’s tail curls around and brushes his knee in retaliation. “Make me something tasty?”

“Oh, darling,” Molly laughs, and suddenly he is himself again. “Your wish is my command.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for exquisite corpse poetry came from losebetter, my most favoritest cheerleader. Sorry for butchering it! I'll do better in the future. :) ALSO, KOE stands for "Kamp of the Empire." It's based on KOA (Kamp of America), which are basically little campgrounds scattered around everywhere for tent and RV campers. In my experience they're super cheap and not always the most remote or pretty, but they're good for roadtrips if you need a cheap and fairly well-maintained "chain" sort of place to stay. 
> 
> As always, find me at erebones on tumblr, hashtag branding. 
> 
> The track for this chapter: Sign by VHS Collection.


	8. light struck from the lemon tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang meets an old friend.

_Nine years prior. Caleb._

_Thwack. Thwack._ Caleb drew his hand back and snapped his walking stick forward again, beating back the heavy underbrush. Each strike was more satisfying than the last. The smell of crushed greenery was heavy in his nose, and sweat beaded between his shoulder blades, trickling down the back of his polo shirt and making it stick to his back.

It was a slow day. Saturday, which meant all the camp kids from last week had just gone home, and the ones for next week hadn’t yet arrived. A few of the boarders lingered, the ones that weren’t visiting their families for the weekend anyway, but they were Yasha’s problem, not Caleb’s.

He was taking the day off, more or less. Being a counselor was still overwhelming sometimes, and he’d begged Yasha to let him wander for the day to give himself time to prepare for next week. Yasha was like him in a lot of ways, he was finding—she knew that look in his eyes.

He made his way deeper into the woods, following the curve of the lake but keeping it at a distance. He didn’t want to run anyone today. Today was just for _him_.

Which was why the sound of voices and laughter permeating the thick undergrowth felt like a kick to the stomach. He flattened himself to a tree for a moment, just listening. A gnat buzzed close to his nose and he smushed it in his sweaty hand, gripping his walking stick tightly for good luck. The voices rose and fell, but it didn’t sound like they were getting any closer. Or any further away.

He gathered his courage after a while and crept through the woods, trying to keep himself between the lake and the voices. Then a peal of laughter rose up, bitten off into a squeak, and the tight feeling in his chest went loose. He knew that laugh. It was Jester.

 _Maybe she’s exploring with Beau_ , he thought to himself. _Or showing a few of the boarder kids some mushrooms._ That was more Molly’s speed, honestly, but at least Jester wouldn’t dare any of the kids to eat some. Snickering to himself, Caleb turned tack and headed deeper into the woods. Whoever it was, they could probably benefit from a good scare. He crept closer, being careful not to step on any twigs, and peered around a tree.

It was Jester after all, wearing a blue flower-print sundress that Caleb had never seen before. She looked very pretty in it, like a painting: sitting on a blanket in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by low-growing ivy, the woods a dappled dropcloth at her back. She was laughing at something. At some _one_. Then Molly skipped into view, barefoot, with a little lacework of woven white wildflowers strung around his horns. He bent in half, grinning, and kissed Jester’s upturned cheek.

Caleb drew back suddenly. He felt as if he had swallowed an ice cube. The cold ran down his gullet and into his stomach, pooling there, but he knelt down and peered forward again, pinned like a beetle to a board with his own insatiable curiosity.

They were having a picnic. Just the two of them. Molly was dressed up too, Caleb realized, in typical Mollymauk fashion: a lacy shirt, suspenders, and grey pinstripe slacks with the cuffs rolled well above his slim ankles. His tail curled and coiled in the speckled shade, sparkling with rings like the studs on his horns and in his left eyebrow. He was a glittering phantasm, a little fey prince. He was beautiful.

Caleb dug his fingers into his knees where he crouched, holding his breath against the pounding of his heart. _Jester is very beautiful, too_ , he thought to himself, but the words felt stiff and forced even in the privacy of his own head. Like he was speaking about a work of art and not a person.

He was distracted from his own inner turmoil when Jester gave one of Molly’s suspenders a good yank and pulled him, laughing, into her lap. She fell back a bit onto one elbow and her skirt slid up, folding into silky ripples against Molly’s thigh where he sat astride her. Molly bent down. And down. His hand was in her hair, tiny white petals flecking from his flower crown to rest like snow against her cheek.

He kissed her.

Caleb jerked away, burning. Embarrassed heat crawled over his skin as he stumbled away through the bushes, too confused and horrified to make a stealthy retreat. For a moment he thought he head a shout, a question, but then he was running, running through the woods without watching where he was going, taking whip-thin branches to the face and skinning his knee when he tripped, until he finally burst into the open air of the lakeshore and had to stumble to a stop or plough straight into the lake.

He stopped there, feet sinking into the muck and hands braced on his knees as he gulped for air. He felt lightheaded and panicky, but he forced himself to take deep breaths, listening for any pursuit. There was nothing.

He’d lost his walking stick somewhere along the way. He scowled and kicked at the shoreline, sending a glob of mud flying across the water only to hit the surface with an unpleasant _sploosh_ and sink, scattering into irrelevance. _This isn’t a big deal. You’ve walked in on your friends kissing before._

Somehow seeing Jester and Beau making out in the dark behind the boathouse hadn’t bothered him this much, and he was pissed off that he couldn’t figure out _why_. It wasn’t like he had a crush on Molly or anything. He didn’t _get_ crushes on people. He just didn’t.

He thought, quite suddenly, of coming back to the cabin early the night before. Fjord had just come back from a shower and he was the only other person in the junior counselor’s cabin, towel wrapped around his waist and his chest and shoulders exposed as he glanced through his phone before getting dressed. Water had sparkled here and there like little diamond drops, drawing Caleb’s mind’s eye down, down, down.

Caleb covered his face with his hands. His cheeks were on _fire_.

“Oh fuck,” he mumbled into his sweaty, dirt-streaked palms. “I am so screwed.”

* * *

_Present day._

Caleb wakes up just this side of too warm, cradled in a nest of sleeping bags. His head is pounding and his tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, throat parched. Sweat beads under his arms and at the small of his back unpleasantly. Someone had forgotten to open the flaps at the top of the tent to let fresh air in.

He shifts, trying to get a feel for his surroundings. Nott is tucked against his hip, snoring gently, her flask slipping from her hand. Jester is on his other side, hands tucked sweetly beneath one cheek and her tail flicking in her sleep. So much for separating by gender.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows. The zipper is hanging half-open, and through it he can see a little wisp of smoke coming from the fire pit. Beyond is a deep blue sky and the Stormchaser’s eggshell-yellow exterior, sitting idle. He blinks hard and tries to think of what woke him.

Oh, right. He really, _really_ has to take a leak.

Extracting himself from the cuddle pile is no easy task, but he manages it without waking anyone. As he stumbles out into the light, shielding his eyes, a piece of the night before comes back to him in the empty cans littered across their campsite and the bright splash of pink hanging off the Stormchaser’s fender. One of Molly’s feather boas, _to give the old girl some charm._

_She doesn’t need charm, Yasha insisted. She’s sturdy. Reliable. Like me._

_Don’t be ridiculous Yash, you **are** the charm._

Molly, blitzed on vodka and cherry soda, drapes himself over Yasha’s lap in Caleb’s flickering memory, like a burlesque dancer wavering in and out of focus on an old black and white film reel. Caleb rubs his gritty eyes and heads for the Stormchaser.

Frumpkin is curled up in the passenger seat, and he flicks his tail in greeting as Caleb makes his slow, painstaking way past the cab and into the kitchen. It’s a mess in here, too: red solo cups everywhere, dirty paper plates scraped mostly clean of hummus and salsa, chip crumbs scattered on the counter and the floor. A tall glass bottle of Kraken sits half-empty by the sink. Caleb tastes rum suddenly in the back of his mouth and bolts for the bathroom.

He falls over Fjord’s long legs on the way, sticking out of the shower, and is so surprised he forgets to throw up. It helps that he has to fumble to catch himself on the opposite wall or risk knocking his head clean off on the way down.

“Fuck!” he says, more loudly than he meant to. He stays there for a moment, legs spread-eagled on the floor and arms straight out ahead of him over the back of the toilet, trying to regain his equilibrium. “Fjord, what the hell?”

“Mmngh?” Fjord stirs on the floor and squints up at him blearily. “Caleb, what the fuck?”

Caleb manages to maneuver himself in the tight space enough to sit on the closed toilet lid and put his pounding head in his hands. “I’m so thirsty…”

There’s some scrabbling and grunting, and Fjord manages to pull himself up to sitting. He immediately slumps forward and puts his head on Caleb’s knee. “What’re… you doing here?”

“Needed to piss.” He still has to, as a matter of fact, but he doesn’t want to disturb Fjord. He pats the top of his head absently, fingers moving through the silver streak at his temple. “What are _you_ doing here? Did you fall asleep in here?”

“Thought I might barf,” Fjord mumbles, “and I didn’t want to get it on Molly, so. I came here.”

“ _Did_ you get sick?”

“Mn. Nah. I mean, I felt fine, I was just afraid—afraid.” He yawns hugely, and Caleb waves the stale-beer breath away with one hand. “Y’know, yesterday I woke up pukin’ saltwater, so. Who fuckin’ knows.”

Caleb blinks a little more awake and looks down at him. He’s still half-asleep, just as hungover as Caleb is if not more so, but it’s the most Fjord has said to him sober since yesterday’s… incident. Caleb lets his hand stroke down through fine, bristly hair to the tip of Fjord’s left ear and rubs it between thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think Molly would’ve minded,” he murmurs. He leans hard against the flimsy wall, rubbing Fjord’s ear like it’s a worry stone. Waiting. “He licked it the other day, remember?”

Fjord’s shoulders shrug with quiet laughter. “Yeah. Fuck, I forgot about that. Nasty.” He hums, and it’s a deep basso rumble in his chest, thinning out into something quieter and more sedate. Caleb leans down, nose nearly to Fjord’s crown. He can feel it more than he can hear it: the slightest whisper of a purr resonating in Fjord’s breast. He bites down on a fond, furious smile, aching with delight.

“Hey,” Fjord says, and the low rumble cuts off abruptly. Caleb tries not to feel disappointed. “What happened last night, anyway?”

Caleb groans. “Fuck if I know. Drinking. Lots of drinking. And…”

Another puzzle piece falls into place. Beau losing at beer pong, and losing her shirt with it. Fjord challenging her to an arm wrestling competition, because he was such a fucking bleeding heart, always needing to make other people happy— _especially_ when he was drunk. Beau winning, and demanding his shirt in recompense.

“You gave Beau your shirt,” Caleb says slowly. And wasn’t that just typical Fjord? A cuddly, people-pleasing drunk, so bloody fond of everyone, complimenting their hair or their eyes or their outfit unprompted. It would almost be childishly sweet if he weren’t also the type of drunk to shed layers like it was going out of style.

“Ohhhhh that’s right, because Jester bet her shirt she’d lose at pong. God.” Fjord rubs his face into Caleb’s knee like he’s trying to erase the images in his head. “No offense, but Beau’s tits weren’t high on my list of things to see before I die.”

Caleb chokes back a laugh. “Neither of you are very good at keeping your clothes on, huh? Speaking of.” He leans down, squinting in the weak daylight filtering in from the vent overhead. “Whose shirt _are_ you wearing?” He plucks at the nylon strap stretched thin over Fjord’s broad shoulder. “I didn’t think you owned anything quite this… snug.”

“Oh. Um.” Fjord sits up a little, looking down at himself with abashed confusion. On someone else the garment might actually reach the waist, but Fjord has always been big-boned, and since he started competing with Yasha in the workout department… well. The thing is practically a bralet. “I think it’s Molly’s. I was cold.”

“So you put on a tank top.”

Fjord sighs. “Look…”

“I’m teasing you, Fjord.” Caleb plays with the strap again, strangely fascinated with the way it lays against Fjord’s variegated green skin. Fjord might be blushing—it’s hard to tell in the dimness and with Fjord’s particular skin tone—but he doesn’t complain as Caleb runs a finger under the strap from his collarbone down to where it meets the rest of the fabric over his soft pectoral.

Out in the hall there’s a thud and a muffled curse, and Caleb snatches his hand away dizzily. Maybe he’s still a little bit drunk. Just a little bit.

“What the fuuuuuuuuuck is going on in here,” Molly slurs, stumbling in and practically falling into Caleb’s lab. He rights himself at the last minute and peers down at them with narrow red eyes. He looks distinctly like a little old lady trying to read the fine print through a pair of pince-nez, and Caleb sniggers. “Caleb Widogast, are you being _naughty_?”

“I’ve never been naughty a day in my life,” Caleb retorts. The bathroom is suddenly ten times smaller than it was, and he’s abruptly and confoundingly aware of how this looks: Fjord with his head practically in Caleb’s lap, Caleb’s knees spread to accommodate his aching bladder. He tries to close them a little, to no avail.

“Riiiight. Well if you’re not being naughty, and have no interest in being naughty just to entertain me, may I suggest you shift yourself so I can take a piss?”

“Oh, well. If you insist.” Caleb pushes indulgently at Fjord’s head and the half-orc groans, slumping in the other direction until he’s curled up on the shower floor again.

“Just leave me here to die.”

Molly yawns and stretches, exposing a strip of lavender skin above the waistband of his briefs. “We’re all hungover, darling, get in line. Caleb, for the love of Bahamut—”

“Okay, okay! I gotta pee too, so make it quick.”

“You had more than your fair chance,” Molly observes, but he stands aside to let Caleb shuffle into the hall. It’s a tight fit, and as he passes, eye-level with the loose collar of Molly’s tee shirt, he catches a scrap of faded blue-green lettering and a whiff of stale Old Spice.

“Is that Fjord’s shirt?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes.” Molly’s already digging around in his underwear, heedless of the audience. “I was cold last night, and since _someone_ was running around without,” he pauses to kick Fjord gently in the backside, “I repurposed it.”

“Right.” Caleb leans against the opposite wall and stares down the short hallway to the half-open door of the “master suite” to avoid accidentally peering into the bathroom. One of Fjord’s legs is still sticking out, so there’s no point in closing the door. After what feels like a bloody age, Molly finishes, sighs, wriggles a bit, and slumps out to join him, wrapping his arms around Caleb from behind and smooshing his cheek against his spine. Caleb smiles a little and leans into it. “Hallo, Mollymauk.”

“ _Hallo, hallo_ ,” Molly sings softly.

“Are you going to let me use the restroom now?”

“It’s all yours, darling.” There’s a light touch to the back of his neck that feels like lips, or maybe the tip of a nose or a chin, and Molly lets him go. “I’m going to make ten gallons of coffee if you’d like some.”

“Yes, please.”

When Molly leaves, he take the smell of Old Spice and patchouli with him. Caleb misses the warmth at his back. With a sigh, he takes his turn with the toilet and shakes Fjord awake after, already snoring again, his cheek printed with the criss-cross shape of the drain.

“Hmm?”

“You really need to sleep in a bed for a little bit, Fjord.” Bit by bit, Caleb peels him off the floor and back to sitting. “C’mon, big guy, I can’t lift you all by myself.”

Fjord grumbles muzzily, but allows Caleb to help boost him to his feet. And promptly drapes himself over Caleb’s shoulders like a shawl, if said shawl were desperately heavy and wearing a very skimpy top. “How’s this,” he huffs into Caleb’s hair.

“Getting there.” Caleb loops an arm around Fjord’s waist and nudges him out into the hall in stages. He feels like he’s herding a buffalo through a hula hoop, but eventually he manages to thread Fjord and himself into the kitchen where Molly is puttering around in his borrowed shirt, picking up plastic cups and shoving whatever needs washing into the tiny sink.

“Let me help,” Caleb says once he’s deposited Fjord on the fold-out couch. He drifts over, reeled in by Molly’s warmth and the sluggish sway of his movements, and plucks the stack of sticky used solo cups from his hands. “I’ll clean. You worry about the coffee.”

“An acceptable compromise.” Molly’s tail flicks in Caleb’s direction, flirting with the back of his knee, and he grins when Caleb gives him a _behave_ sort of look. “All right, all right. I’m done with the funny business.”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“Touche.”

They work around each other in companionable silence. No one else is stirring yet, so it’s just the two of them, cradled in the warm midmorning quiet that smells of sun-warm grass and petrichor. After a little while, Fjord begins to snore again: very soft whuffles that fade into a low, sub-audible purr when Caleb adjusts the angle of his head against the pillow. As the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the small space—Yasha doesn’t believe in skimping on quality beans—muffled voices can be heard from the other side of the Stormchaser.

“Beau and Yasha?” Caleb asks quietly, accepting the mug off coffee Molly presses toward him.

“Must be waking up.” Molly boosts himself on the counter, though he has to slouch to avoid hitting his horns on the cupboards, and wraps his hands around his own coffee cup. Caleb cocks his head to read the half-hidden lettering— _I’m the best! I’m the king of me! I’m going to eat chips out of the garbage!_ —and snorts. “What?” Molly asks, grinning. “Is it not appropriate?”

“I can’t see Yasha buying that for herself, somehow.”

“Of course not. She bought it for _me_. I may have pestered her about it,” he adds, no trace of shame in his crooked smile.

“Is there any cream?”

“Mm. In the fridge.” Molly lifts one foot in the air to give Caleb access to the mini fridge stashed cleverly beside the sink. Caleb sighs and goes to his knees.

“Would you like some, too?”

“Please.” Molly sounds like he’s holding back laughter, but he doesn’t make any smart remarks as Caleb fishes the carton out and adds a splash to his own, then to Molly’s proffered mug. “A little more?”

Caleb sighs. “How’s that, highness?”

“Oh, just lovely. Thank you, Mr. Caleb.”

“Fucking—please don’t call me that,” Caleb sputters as red creeps up his cheeks. The floor is really comfy all of a sudden. He turns and puts his back to the fridge door, holding his coffee to his nose and just breathing. A moment later he feels gentle fingers in his hair and sighs. “I’m all greasy.”

“Tch. You’re fine.” Molly scritches lightly at his scalp and a delighted shiver prickles under Caleb’s skin. “Does it help if you get to call me _Mr. Mollymauk_ in return?”

“You were never a counselor,” Caleb says, aggrieved. “You don’t know the pain.”

“Oh, the agony!” Molly laughs. “Such a trial to be an object of affection.”

“They were just kids. It was _embarrassing_.”

“Hmmm. I would have been flattered, but to each their own.” Molly’s neatly-trimmed nails find the downy, freshly-shorn hair at the nape of Caleb’s neck and Caleb lets his head fall forward to give him better access. “At least they were well-behaved. Mostly.”

Caleb wrinkles his nose. The gaggle of young girls that had latched onto him during his summer as Head Counselor had not been what he would consider _well-behaved._ At least they were harmless, even if his friends gave him endless shit for it. Being called _Mr. Caleb_ was never quite the same after that.

“I had to confiscate some… paraphernalia from one of them,” he admits.

“What? Seriously?”

“ _Ja_ , the older one, Cali, brought a bowl to camp. Yasha never found any weed on her, so we didn’t suspend her or anything, but.” Caleb shrugs. “I felt kind of bad, honestly. She kept saying it was her older brother’s, didn’t know how it got into her stuff. And then she and her friends started the _Mr. Caleb_ thing in retaliation…”

“Pretty harmless, as pranks go.”

Caleb hums. Molly has found a particularly nice spot near the crown of his head, and it’s making all his higher intellectual functions melt into a useless puddle. “Guess so…”

“You falling asleep on me, Cay?”

“Mmn. Maybe.”

Molly huffs a soft laugh and nudges his shoulder with one dangling foot. “Wanna return the favor?”

Caleb groans. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Mr. Molly.”

“Ha! There it is.” Molly wiggles his toes at him until Caleb puts down his half-finished coffee and pulls Molly’s leg over one shoulder to rub at the ball of his foot. His toenails are painted the same dark sea-green as his fingers, and his foot is soft and well-kept in Caleb’s hands. Molly is a firm believer in regular pedicures. He digs his thumb into the arch of Molly’s foot and the reverberating groan he gets in response if almost obscenely loud.

“You’re going to wake Fjord if you keep that up.”

“He’s fine, he’s sleeping like a log. And if he does, I’m sure he wouldn’t object to joining the fun. Mmmmm, fuck me that’s nice.” Molly’s toes curl indecently. Caleb is infinitely thankful that Molly can’t see his face from this position.

“Other foot.”

“Hmm.” Molly switches feet and reaches down with the other hand, cradling Caleb’s face between his palms. With Molly’s heel nestled against his chest, Caleb feels his head being tipped back, back, until he can see Molly’s red eyes and glittering septum piercing hovering above him. “You’re blushing, baby.”

“It’s warm in here.” Caleb runs his fingers lightly along the arch and Molly twitches, practically jerking out of Caleb’s grip. “Ha. Ticklish.”

“Not fair. Fine. Be cute and freckly where I can’t see you.” Molly tweaks his nose and releases him, turning back to his coffee.

The Stormchaser’s tiny kitchen returns blissful silence, broken only by Fjord’s occasional whuffling. Caleb gives up on the massage and just loops his hand around Molly’s ankle and holds it there for a headrest. The murmured conversation in the bedroom has petered out, replaced with soft string music, tinny and vacant like it’s being played from someone’s phone. Caleb very carefully doesn’t listen harder to try and pick out any other, more incriminating, sounds.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until a sudden tug on his hair wakes him, punctuated by the crunch of tires on gravel. In a flash, Molly hops off the counter and bolts down the hallway.

“Molly? What the hell…” Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Caleb stumbles to his feet and goes to look out the window.

There’s a cop car outside, parked between the Stormchaser and Fjord’s truck. Caleb’s veins turn to ice and he ducks away on instinct, scrambling to follow Molly’s trail.

“I said police!” Molly is whispering, hands moving a mile a minute as he rummages through the storage compartments next to Yasha’s bed. “Did you not hear me? Get the fuck up, help me hide the weed!”

Beau yawns enormously and sits up in bed, rubbing her puffy mouth with the back of her hand. She’s blatantly topless and peppered with hickies, and Caleb quickly averts his eyes. “Seriously, dude? Why are you worried, you have a fucking medical card.”

“Yeah, well, Yasha doesn’t, and if she’s busted for _that_ they’ll figure out she doesn’t have a legitimate passport—”

“Mollymauk.” Yasha’s enormous hand comes out of the covers and clamps down unerringly on Molly’s wrist. “Leave it, there’s nothing in here anyway. Go get me a damp cloth.”

“What?” Molly freezes, tail lashing back and forth. “Why?”

With an irritable growl, Yasha drags herself upright next to Beau, makeup smeared beneath her eyes and her chin suspiciously shiny. “Because my mouth tastes like pussy and I need to be somewhat respectable if I’m gonna talk to law enforcement.”

“Oh, right. Nice. I mean gross.” Molly sticks his tongue out at Beau and then escapes—or tries to, but runs smack into Caleb. He pats the side of Caleb’s face absently and moves past him for the bathroom. “Fjord! Wake up! Wipe the drool off, sunshine, we have company.”

Caleb clears his throat awkwardly. He can’t bring himself to look at either of them. “Um… I’m not so good with… with police…”

“Yeah? Join the fucking club.” Beau is shimmying around, most of her hidden by the duvet. She must have been hunting down her clothes because when she emerges again she’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a sports bra. She tumbles to the floor and roots beneath the bed for a shirt. “Fucking cops, man. I was _this close._ ”

“I, erm… sorry…”

“Not your fault.” She finds a purple shirt with the word _JUICY_ embroidered on in sequins and pulls it over her head. “Stay here, Yash and I will deal with it.”

It’s kind of her, considering Beau’s the one between the two of them who’s actually spent any time behind bars, and Caleb is tempted to take her up on her offer. But his curiosity is a stronger beast than his lingering discomfort with law enforcement. He follows them at a snail’s pace, tiptoeing down the hall.

The Stormchaser is already empty. When he peers out the window, mouth dry, he can see Beau Fjord and Yasha standing in a loose cluster with a slim, golden-haired officer in a wide-brimmed hat, Crownsguard Trooper badge winking on their breast pocket. Molly is off to the side, sitting in one of the abandoned camp chairs with his feet up on the edge of the fire ring. He looks watchful, but not particularly stressed, and Caleb feels the ratcheting tension in his throat begin to loosen.

Then Yasha throws back her head and _laughs_. Actually… laughs, the kind of laughter that rings with earnest good humor instead of mockery. Beau’s arms are still folded across her chest protectively, but she’s bouncing a little on her toes and Fjord is grinning—Caleb can make out the curve of his cheek from here. He sighs and makes for the door.

“Hey Caleb!” Beau calls when he disembarks, waving him over. “You’ll never guess who just got promoted to Watchmaster for Alfield.”

Caleb keeps his eyes narrow as he approaches, taking in the officer’s appearance. Slim build but sturdy in the shoulders, soft chin, long nose, bright laughing eyes. They tip their hat a little, playfully almost, and a few stray wisps of golden hair flutter in the wind.

“Mr. Caleb,” the officer says, grinning under their hat. “Long time no see.”

Recognition slams into him at the sound of that voice. “Bryce? Is that you?”

“At your service, Mr. Caleb,” Bryce grins. “Boy howdy, am I glad to see all of you safe and sound.”

“Why?” Fjord asks. “What’s been going on?”

The easy smile fades like cheap ink from Bryce’s face. “We got reports this mornin’ that some folks had gone missing from the park here. Coupla kids never came home last night, and this is the last place they were seen. Signed in at the Welcome Center, thank the Everlight.” They rub the side of their nose, a nervous tic, and pull a notebook from the pocket of their uniform. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you all some questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly's mug exists, and I have it! It's on society6 here: https://society6.com/product/trash-bird-self-affirmations_mug. As always, find me at erebones on tumblr :)
> 
> The track for this chapter: Eugene by Sufjan Stevens.


	9. you can run for the skyline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang makes friends with a bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that I'm starting to play even more heavily with the timeline of canon. I JUST WANTED TO HAVE KIRI OKAY.

_Eight years prior. Caleb._

_Plunk_.

“Nice shot, Widogast!”

Caleb grinned and reeled back for another. The hotdog-shaped rock spun up, up, up—and came crashing down with a weird, hollow _sploosh_ and hardly a ripple on the surface of the water.

“That is _way_ cooler than skipping rocks,” Bryce said. They held a hand to their eyes and scanned the dimming skyline over the lake. “Do you think I can hit that log sticking out of the water over there?”

Caleb shielded his eyes, too. The sun had just gone down, staining the sky and the water a brilliant dusky rose. Filaments of gold crept across the sky from jets passing high overhead, and the tall stands of evergreen that clustered thickly on the other shore sent long, spidery fingers reaching across the lake like they were putting themselves to bed.

“I can’t see it.”

“Here.” Bryce came over and stood close enough that their arms brushed at the wrists. They leaned into Caleb’s space and pointed, nearly cheek to cheek. “See it now?”

“O-oh,” Caleb stammered. “Ja, I think you could hit that. You have a very good arm.”

It was true. Bryce had the best pitcher’s arm at camp, and they were always the first to be picked for games of any kind. Anything but kickball—Bryce could throw like a minor league champ, but they weren’t so strong in the running department. Asthma. Caleb could relate.

“Okay. Let me find a really good rock.”

Caleb made a cursory attempt at helping rock hunt, but after kicking around a bit he decided it was getting too dark and found a good flat patch of dry sand to sit on. He watched Bryce poking at the bigger stones piled at the height of the waterline. Bryce was a good-looking kid. A head of golden curls they kept long and loose, a modest amount of freckles. A nice upturned nose. Caleb braced his elbows on his bent knees and stared across the water. He liked Bryce. Really. They were a good, sturdy sort of friend.

He sighed. Sometimes he thought maybe Bryce liked him better than a friend, but it was hard to tell. Bryce liked _everyone_ , and everyone liked them. They were just… that sort of easy-going person for whom the insurmountable clique borders didn’t seem to matter. They had slipped into the fringes of the Mighty Nein easily—not that they actively tried to keep people out. Quite the opposite. People just seemed to find them, and one way or another they were enfolded.

“Hey, Cay. What do you think of this one?”

Caleb blinked out of his shallow stream of consciousness and focused on the rock in Bryce’s outstretched hand. It was a good one—ovalish, smooth, with a good heft to it. Not nearly softball sized or shaped, but it fit Bryce’s palm well.

“Looks great,” he said, and climbed to his feet, dusting off his backside. “Let’s see it.”

Bryce grinned and wound up, knee hiked to their chest. In one smooth motion, like a mousetrap being sprung, their arm released and the stone went flying, a dark speck against the twilit sky before it disappeared. Caleb refocused, trying to find the stump again, but all he could hear was a far-off _clunk_ that rippled across the water and faded.

“I got it!” Bryce crowed, hands in the air as Caleb applauded.

“I will have to take your word for it, my friend,” he admitted, “my eyes aren’t as good as yours. I did hear it, though.”

“Thanks!” Bryce turned back to him, flushed and grinning—and the expression dropped. “Oh, hullo Astrid. Didn’t see you there.”

Caleb turned, bare feet sinking a little in the sand in time with the sinking of his stomach. He dredged up a smile anyway and watched as Astrid picked her careful way down to the shoreline.

“Nice throw, Bryce,” she said, though her eyes were pinned uncomfortably to Caleb. She was out of her counselor’s polo for the evening, but there was still an uncanny crispness to her, a level of neatness that wouldn’t have been out of place in a private school. Or a barracks. She tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Sorry to interrupt, I was looking for Caleb.”

“Well, here he is,” Bryce announced, a little too loudly. There was a moment of awkward silence. “Oh, do you want me to go?”

“I mean—you don’t have to…”

“Okay, okay. I got it. I’ll catch you later, Cay.” Bryce clapped him on the shoulder, bent to scoop up their discarded hoodie, and left the beach. Left Caleb. Alone. Caleb tried not to stare at the ground and failed, miserably.

“Hey,” Astrid said after a bit.

“Uh, hey.” Caleb shoved his hands into his pockets and threw a nervous smile her way with the hopeless desperation of a fisherman casting out an unbaited line and praying for a bite. “Having a good summer so far?”

“Pretty good, ja.” She nibbled on the edge of her thumb and switched to Zemnian. “I wanted to say sorry.”

Caleb blinked. “Sorry for what?”

“Last year. I kind of made things awkward, and I didn’t mean to. I feel bad because we used to be close, all of us, and then I went and ruined it.”

A spark of terrified fight-or-flight flared up, but Caleb tamped it down. He was an adult now (almost). This was what adults did. Had responsible conversations about their fuckups, and moved past them.

“It wasn’t just you,” he said, scuffing his toe in the sand. “I mean—I’m sorry, too. I’m just very awkward.”

Astrid smiled, not unkindly. “You can’t use that excuse forever, you know. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I know.” Caleb rubbed the bridge of his nose and longed for his glasses. For something, anything, to hide behind. In a rush of bravery, he held out his hand. “Friends?”

“Ja, friends.” They shook—her hand was cool and dry, unlike his—and quickly put their hands back in their pockets. “Anyway,” Astrid continued, “part of the reason I wanted to, um, make amends, is… well we are all applying for school, and I know you and I had some similar interests. And I thought maybe you would like to know about this program in Rexxentrum on advanced magical theory… you do two years of regular undergrad stuff and then there’s a chance to apply for advisement to pursue more intense studies. It’s the only program of its kind in the Empire.”

Like a chick slowly cracking its way out of its shell, the tension in Caleb’s shoulders began to unwind. He dug his toe out of the sand and took a step toward her. “Is it… legal?”

“Of course! It’s closely regulated by the university, but it’s an experimental division and they do really interesting stuff for the government. _Really_ interesting. Like, half the reports they’re allowed to publish are redacted.” Her eyes sparkled with pent-up eagerness, and in spite of his reservations, Caleb could feel the excited energy pulsing through him. He twisted his fingers together and a few sparks leapt and fizzled on the wet sand. Astrid laughed. “I knew you would be excited! I’ll send you an email when camp is over with a link to the program, okay?”

“Ja, okay, sounds great!” He shoved his hands back into his pockets to try and quell his eagerness. “Will you tell me more tomorrow, after the kids go home?”

“Of course. Walk me back to the cabins?” She half-turned away, a full-body gesture away from the lake, and Caleb leapt to follow, eager for more. “My dad actually knows the Dean at Rexxentrum, which is how I heard about it…”

* * *

_Present day._

“...and that’s all I know.” Bryce flips their notebook shut and takes a long drink of the lemonade pressed on them by Jester.

The bright, soft-edged gentleness of morning suddenly seems darker, stained with murk at the edges like tea that’s been left to steep for just a little too long. Caleb sits back deeper into his camp chair and looks around the circle at the others. All tired, all in various stages of hungover—in Nott’s case, still a little drunk. As he watches, she unscrews the cap of her flask and takes a long, grimacing sip.

“That fucking sucks, man,” Beau says, the first to break the silence. She rubs the shaved back of her head briskly, like she’s trying to wake herself up. “I can’t believe we didn’t hear or see _anything_.”

“We were kind of preoccupied,” Fjord puts in.

“True.”

“So is the park… closed?” Yasha asks. “Do we need to leave?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no,” Bryce says slowly. “But we’d prefer it if you kept to your campsite. I’m sorry, I know the trails here are quite lovely this time of year, but we need to keep them clear for our rescue dogs.”

“Can we… help in any way?” Caleb asks. “Aside from staying put, I mean.”

“You’ve already been a big help—no, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but knowing they didn’t come this way last night really narrows the search down.” Bryce forces an unconvincing smile. “If our dogs don’t turn anything up in half an hour or so we’ll be asking for local search and rescue volunteers, so. If you’re still keen…”

“Absolutely.” Fjord’s hangover seems to have disappeared, shed in favor of rock-solid certainty that plucks Caleb’s lingering anxiety out of the gutter and sends it scurrying. “Just let us know if you need us. We’ll… well, we’ll be here.”

“Good to know. Thank you, Fjord. Caleb. Everyone.” Bryce stands, drains the lemonade, and sets the empty bottle gingerly in the cupholder of the chair they’d been sitting in. “It was good to see all of you.”

“Good luck!” Jester calls softly as they return to their patrol car. Bryce peels away from their site and they’re left in tenuous silence.

“Well,” Molly says after a minute, “at least we didn’t get busted for the weed.”

“Molly, for fuck’s sake.” Fjord pushes himself out of his chair and begins pacing around the fire ring, collecting discarded bottles and cans as he goes. “There are _children_ missing, this is hardly the time.”

“What? I’m sorry for trying to lighten the mood,” Molly protests, but he has the grace to look ashamed of himself.

“We’re going to help, right?” Nott says, a bit stickily. She rubs her eyes beneath the giant sunglasses that cover half her face and takes another swig from her flask. Caleb makes a mental note to remember to dump the contents and replace it with water when she’s not looking. “I know this is a vacation or whatever but we can’t just… sit around.”

“Of course,” Caleb says, though the thought is somewhat terrifying. The three teenagers went missing late yesterday afternoon—a lot can happen in twelve hours. He’s seen his share of fucked up shit. But Nott’s right. They can’t just sit around and do nothing.

“We should get ready, if we’re going to be doing search and rescue.” Yasha rights herself from where she’d been leaning against the Stormchaser, arms folded across her chest. “Clean ourselves up a little bit, clean up this mess.” She jerks her chin at the chaos that Fjord is still slowly picking away at. “Get ready for a hike.”

Beau is still slouched in her chair, rubbing her mouth with one hand, but she stirs at Yasha’s cool commands. “Not really the kind of hike I had in mind. Fuck.”

Slowly, one by one, they begin to pick themselves up and put themselves together. Caleb helps gather all the empty bottles and other trash, and by the time the campsite is sorted, Jester and Nott have put their tent to rights. Another pot of coffee is made and passed around. And forty minutes later, when Bryce’s patrol car returns with a grim-faced Watchmaster inside, they’re all more or less presentable, in sturdy walking shoes and jeans, finishing the last dregs of a halfhearted breakfast.

“Here’s some maps of the area,” Bryce says, passing out a few laminated sheets. “The spots marked in green are where the dogs seemed most interested. We’re gonna spread out from there. If you form a loose sort of line and head west and a bit north, you’ll cover the most ground.”

“What should we do if we find something?” Fjord asks.

“My cell is on the bottom of the maps. Call me the minute you find anything. A discarded shirt. A shoe. A fucking strand of hair, I don’t care. If you find the kids, even better.” Bryce taps the map in Fjord’s hand. “There’s a lot of old caves in this area, back from when it used to be a mining complex. Most of them were filled in or collapsed, but watch your step anyway. It’s a bitch getting any kind of off-road vehicles out here because of the tall grass.”

Caleb clears his throat. “What if… what if they are injured, or badly in need of assistance?” _What if they are dead,_ he thinks, but there’s a strange fragility beneath Bryce’s commanding demeanor that he doesn’t want to shatter.

“I know first aid,” Jester pipes up. “And Yasha and I are _very_ strong—”

“Don’t move them if they’re in a bad way,” Bryce interrupts, “but administer whatever first aid you can manage. I have a kit in my car, actually, I’ll get it for you. Any other questions?”

Caleb glances around at the group. They are all somber, but determined, and no one raises their hand to ask for clarification. “I think we are good,” he says softly. “We should head out as soon as possible, ja?”

“Whenever you’re ready. Now is best. And remember, this is a volunteer thing—if you tire out, or if for any reason you need to step off the team, no hard feelings.” Bryce makes eye contact with each of them, waiting until they receive a nod from the entire group before continuing. “Your help is really, really appreciated, my friends. Good luck. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need to, my phone will be on all day. Oh! Before I forget.” They dip out to their car and retrieve a sizeable first aid kit, which Jester accepts gratefully. “And the last thing. There will be other volunteers out there, but if you see anyone acting suspiciously, call me and don’t engage.”

“Do you suspect foul play?” Beau asks.

Bryce shrugs. “We need to be prepared for any eventuality. Now. You have the maps, the photos of the kids? I will leave you to it. Good luck, and the Everlight be with you.”

“Bahamut be with you, as well,” Molly murmurs. Caleb gives him a quick glance, but his face is sincere despite the saccharinity of the words.

Bryce departs again and they all look at one another. Waiting for something. Fjord is the first to break the silence. “Am I the one in charge, then? Or does anyone else want to take the reins here?”

Molly shrugs. “I have no interest in coordinating this. You’re all… leadery and whatnot. I vote yes.”

“I think you’d better,” Caleb says. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one here besides Yash who can even read a compass.”

Fjord rolls his eyes. “Point. All right, let’s head out. I’ll take one end of the line; Yasha, you want to take the other? Great. We can fan out when we get to the starting point on the map.”

“Caleb.” Nott appears at his side, squinting without her sunglasses. They’re dangling around her neck from a cord, along with her flask. “Stay close, okay?”

“I’ll keep you in my sights,” he promises.

“No. I want to keep _you_ in _mine._ ” She shoots him a meaningful look and trails away again to join the group.

They walk to the starting point mostly in silence. Fjord and Yasha are already in the lead, heads bowed together as they mutter over the map. Caleb hangs back a bit. He needs the breathing room.

It’s a truly beautiful day. The sky is a deep, slick blue, not a trace of cloud in sight. The sun creeps toward its peak steadily but slow, content to survey its kingdom in ponderous state, and a light breeze blows through the rolling hills, catching the grass up in its loose fingers. It’s warm, but not too warm—Caleb is comfortable in his jeans and old Trostenwald Brewer’s Fest tee shirt—and so idyllic on the surface that it’s hard to believe a couple of kids are lost out here. Alone. Afraid.

_It is a test, Mr. Widogast. A test of your fortitude._

_Caleb stares at the narrow door. Tastes dust and mildew in the back of his throat, beginning to itch. Feels twilight tingling in the hairs on his forearms. He steps forward. He is prepared to prove himself._

“Cay.”

He startles at the gentle touch on his elbow, and turns to see Fjord beside him. “Oh, hey. Weren’t you in the lead just a second ago?”

“We’re almost to the starting point.” Fjord brandishes the map. “Thought I’d put you between me and Nott, if you’re amenable. Toward the end of the line.”

“Wherever you think is best.” An ache is developing behind his eyes, and Caleb wishes suddenly that he’d thought to bring sunglasses. He blinks against the dryness of his contacts and looks around.

They’re at the top of a small rise. A post with a yellow smear marks it as a good bird-watching point—it looks out over a small bit of wetland criss-crossed with boardwalks. Beyond, the land slopes up and up, a gradual incline peppered with boulders and low shrubbery. There’s only one living tree in sight, off to the left; the rest are old stumps poking out of the shallow standing water before them.

“Okay everybody,” Fjord says, and they cluster around him easily like a gaggle of ducklings to their mother. “Looks like this nasty bit of wetland is our first stop. I guess spread out on the boardwalks as best you can; don’t try and go wading, Beau.” He turns his head sharply to glare at her.

“What? Man, I wasn’t gonna!” she protests, hands up defensively. “Okay, fine. No wading.”

“Ugh,” Nott mutters. “I _hate_ the water.”

“Stay close to me.” Caleb puts a hand on her shoulder. “Just for this bit.”

“Right.” Fjord nods, satisfied. “Once we get across we’re gonna get in formation. I’m on the far right—the northwest, for those of you keeping score at home. Then Caleb, Nott, Jester, Beau, Molly, and Yasha on the other side. Beau, you’re in the middle, so if you hear anything from one side, it’s your job to pass it to the other, okay?”

“Aye aye, captain.”

Fjord rolls his eyes. “Perfect. Everybody has their phones on them, right? Jester, you have your backpack?”

“Right here,” she chirps, hefting her bright pink satchel a little higher on her shoulders. “First aid kit, energy bars, a couple of bottles of water, a thermal blanket. We should stop for snacks in like two hours.”

“Fine by me.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “I, um, feel like I should say somethin’ inspiring, but…”

“No need,” Yasha interrupts. She pats his briefly on the shoulder and then looks at her own hand afterward with something approaching confusion. “Come on. Let’s go find those kids.”

* * *

The first half-hour or so is the worst. Caleb is hard-pressed to imagine anything worse than finding some lost teenagers drowned in a swamp, and with the murky water and swarming bugs and the glints of sunlight reflecting off the water, every odd shape is a person floating facedown in the shallow water. His stomach roils with nerves and he has to rub his clammy palms off on his jeans multiple times. The only thing keeping his head on straight is that Nott is far worse off.

She’s never spoken to him about her fear of water, and Caleb has never pressed her in spite of all the years they’ve known each other. Some things just aren’t meant for others’ ears. Caleb likes to think that his willingness to overlook her phobia helped her to trust him in those early days, before their friendship was more than just a tenuous strand of agreeability between them.

Today he makes it his sacred duty to keep one eye on the wetland and one eye on Nott. It helps steady him, like a safety line on the pitching deck of a ship. Soon he can barely see the others, hidden as they are by the tall cattails. There’s the occasional call for one of the kids, echoing over the water, always unanswered. He glances at the map again, and the badly-rendered school portraits photocopied to the opposite side, but he can’t remember their names and they’re not written down.

Towards the end of the trek across the boardwalks, movement catches at the corner of his eye. He turns, squinting against the glare, and hears a shout from Jester.

“Something in the water!” she calls, her voice a stammered echo through the reeds, and then the terrific _fwoosh_ of someone jumping into the water. Forgetting Nott, and forgetting for a moment his own fear, Caleb breaks into a run, past the bank of cattails to see where Jester is.

“Jester, get out of the water!” Fjord’s voice booms from somewhere close.

Caleb skids to a halt and his feet fumble on old, slippery lichen—he’s reached the end of the boardwalk. He manages to catch himself before hitting the swamp and there he crouches, heart hammering in his chest as he watches Jester several hundred feet away slogging through waist-deep water. Mud streaks her cheek and she’s got her pink backpack held above her head to keep it from getting wet as fetid water creeps up the knotted hem of her tank top.

“Jester!” Beau hollers. She’s beyond Jester just a little, perched at the edge of the boardwalk like she’s on the verge of flinging herself after her girlfriend. “What the fuck are you doing!”

Jester ignores all of them, slogging in Caleb’s direction. It’s slow going, but she doesn’t seem to be actively sinking. Nott creeps up behind and grabs the end of Caleb’s scarf.

“What is she doing? Did she see something?”

“She said she saw something moving, but—it was probably just a fish or something.” Bit by bit, Caleb’s heart rate begins to decrease as Jester makes headway. Then his eyes catch on something. Something small, and black, and tangled in a discarded shopping bag. “Oh, fuck, what is that?”

Jester is just out of reach, waving forward with her hands to try and grasp it, when the thing moves again. A black, iridescent wing, saturated with swamp water, flails up out of the thick layer of bright green algae and practically slaps Jester in the face. A small beak lifts up and seems to open, but no sound emerges.

“It’s a bird,” Nott whispers, shielding her eyes to see better. “A really fuck-off big one, damn.”

“It’s okay,” Jester says, her voice carrying easily across the water. Fjord has joined Beau on the other side, and footsteps pounding along the boardwalk behind Caleb signal the arrival of Molly and Yasha, but all of Caleb’s attention is focused on Jester. “It’s okay, little birdie, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What the fuck kind of bird is that?” Molly mutters from over Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb doesn’t bother replying—no way to tell without getting closer, but there’s something off-putting about it. It looks raven-like, with its big curved bill and black feathers, but the way it instantly calms at Jester’s voice is… uncanny. Intelligent.

“There you are,” Jester is saying, cooing to it like it’s a baby. “I’m just a friend who’s gonna help you out of here, okay? Can I take a look at this bag? It’s all tangled…”

Slowly, far too slowly for Caleb’s liking, she begins picking at the plastic wound around the creature. It’s about the size of a garbage bag, but printed with some kind of logo on the side that Caleb can’t make out from here.

By the time the bird has been freed, Caleb could swear Jester’s lost a few inches to the swamp. It’s lapping at her mid-ribs now, and the water has soaked up into her shirt, leaving green smears wherever the algae manages to get a foothold. Unbothered by the wet or the stench of a hundred decomposing plants, Jester shoves the tattered plastic bag into a belt loop and gathers the bird into her arms.

“This way,” Caleb calls, hand outstretched. “It’s closer if you come here instead of turning back.”

With a quick glance back over her shoulder, and something like an apologetic shrug to Beau, Jester faces forward again and begins slogging toward him. The bird is fucking _huge_ , and it’s obviously weighing her down—her momentum wasn’t much to speak of before, but now it’s cut in half again, and more than once she seems to stumble, feet catching on something hidden below the water.

“Almost there,” Nott mutters. “Almost…”

Jester’s face writes blank with surprise and she pitches forward with an alarmed squawk. The bird flaps wildly and for a moment they’re both flailing in the water—and then she rights herself, panting and soaked from head to foot, bits of green vegetation trickling down her forehead.

“I’m all right!” she calls, but her voice is shaky at the seams. “I’m just—” Small-voiced, she looks around and back to Caleb, lavender eyes huge with fear for the first time since this whole misadventure began. “I think I’m sinking.”

“What happened!” Beau shouts across the water. “Is she okay?”

“I’ve got it.” Yasha strips off her flannel and loops it around her neck like a scarf, makes a little beckoning motion to Molly. “Tie.”

Molly strips one of the colorful bracelets off his wrist and passes it over. Yasha ties her hair back with quick, efficient motions and toes out of her hiking boots.

“Jester, stay put,” Yasha instructs calmly. “Don’t move _at all_ , okay?”

“Okay,” Jester whispers, barely moving her lips. The water ripples around her elbows where they’ve gathered the bird up into her arms. “I’m not letting go of him.”

Yasha sits down on the boardwalk next to Caleb, legs dangling off, and then lowers herself into the water. It barely reaches her knees, at first, but as she begins to step carefully toward Jester it crawls up her thighs and begins to stain her jean cutoffs a darker blue.

The morning is suddenly weighted down with horrible silence. The wind was fallen still in the reeds, and even the birds that occasionally called to one another across the dead tree stumps are quiet. Caleb holds his breath, fingers digging into his thighs until they’re hardly better than claws. Even Nott and Molly, each pressed to either side of him, are no comfort.

The swamp is treacherous, but Yasha moves patiently, keeping to the shallower knolls as much as she can. By the time she reaches Jester, she’s only hip-deep. Jester, meanwhile, is barely managing to keep the bird _and_ her backpack above water. As soon as she’s within reach, Yasha takes the pack from her and puts it on, then ties her flannel around her from shoulder to hip in a makeshift sling and holds her hands out.

“Give me the bird, Jess.”

“He’s afraid,” Jester protests. “Can’t he stay with me?”

Yasha shakes her head, loose ponytail swinging behind her. “I need you to do what I say, Jessie, okay? This is supposed to be a search and rescue for some other kids, not for _you_. We’re wasting daylight.”

Shamefaced, Jester gathers the bird in her arms and begins passing it over. It struggles a bit, wings flapping weakly, but Yasha is stone cold—she grabs it by the thick ruff of feathers on the back of its neck and hoists it clean into the air before settling it into the shirt-sling. It seems to recognize Yasha’s ironclad competence (or it’s just exhausted beyond all reasonable measure of struggle) and stays put.

“Now,” Yasha says. “Give me your hand.”

Jester is no lightweight—she could probably give even Yasha a run for her money in a straight arm-wrestling competition—but in this instance it’s clear which one of them has the upper hand. Yasha manages to back herself up onto a half-submerged log and from there, bends her leverage to pull Jester up out of the muck. Then, arms linked, she leads the way back to the boardwalk where Caleb and the others are waiting. Together they pull Jester out—Yasha manages just fine for herself—and then Caleb has an armful of swamp-soaked blue tiefling as Jester throws her arms around him and just _clings._

“Sorry sorry sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s… okay,” Caleb says slowly, eyes fastened on the bird still cradled in Yasha’s sling. “You did the right thing, I think.”

More pounding footsteps—Beau and Fjord, both breathless, stumble to a stop at the cusp of their little dogpile. “Fucking hells, Jester,” Beau says, and drops to her knees to take Jester’s face in her hands. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Jester says again, “but I’m _not_ sorry I did it.” She kisses Beau on the nose, quickly, and then scrambles upright to drip-drip-drip in Yasha’s direction. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“What the fuck _is_ it?” Nott wants to know. She’s standing well away from the bird, which would probably reach her shoulder if they were standing side by side, half-hidden behind Fjord’s bulk.

“It’s not like any bird _I’ve_ ever seen,” Yasha says with a shrug. “What was it trapped in?”

Jester turns, tugging at the bag she stuffed in her belt. When she shakes it free, it’s a tattered but still legible oversized shopping bag for a place called _Gator Home & Garden. _“This garbage. He’s going to be okay though, aren’t you little buddy?” She reaches out toward the bird, and for a second Caleb is sure she’s going to get her hand snapped off by that wickedly curved beak; but instead the bird lets her stroke its damp feathers right between the eyes, even poofing its ruff up a little and letting out a soft trill. “Oh! It likes me!”

“It knows you saved it,” Beau says softly. “That’s… kinda cute.”

Fjord clears his throat. “Yeah, okay, so disaster averted and all… but can we get a move on? Looks like this one’s a dead end, we should backtrack and get out of this wetland. I don’t think there’s anything here.”

Nott nods her head fervently, still parked firmly in the meridian of the boardwalk. Still dripping, and smelling frankly terrible, Jester reclaims her backpack and peers inside. “I have some extra clothes in here but I don’t think any of them will fit you, Yash.”

“That’s okay. I’ll dry.”

While Jester changes, assisted by Beau and Yasha, the rest of them begin meandering back down the boardwalk, single file with Nott in the lead. Sooner than Caleb would have thought, they’re stepping off the treacherous wood planks and onto dry ground, hiking up a gentle slope to the peak of the grass rise he’d seen earlier. He stands there, looking out across the gentle hills and valleys of the plains ahead, and sighs.

“All right?” Fjord rumbles, cleaving to his side a little apart from the others. “You looked kinda freaked out.”

“I _was_ freaked out.” Caleb folds his arms over his chest and rubs his own stringy biceps, strangely chill in spite of the sun beaming down from overhead. Noon already. “Weren’t you?”

“A little, but Jester’s smart and strong. She can take care of herself. And the rest of us were there, so it turned out all right.”

Caleb huffs, a raspy attempt at laughter. “I guess so.”

“Or did you mean… just, all of it? The missing kids and stuff.”

“That’s part of it.” He didn’t enjoy the swamp in particular, but now that there’s a whole field of tall grass and hidden caves to navigate, he’s realizing the worst is probably yet to come. “Part of me wants to find them. The other part is afraid to.”

Fjord glances at his watch. “I’m sure they’re fine, just lost. Like you said, not many younger folks these days know how to read a compass. Or the land.”

“Or the sea?” Caleb asks lightly. He doesn’t miss the gentle flinch that crosses Fjord’s face before being subsumed again into bland amiability. “I guess not.” He glances back. The girls have caught up, Jester now clad in stretchy gym shorts and a repurposed tee-shirt with the arms cut off—one of Beau’s, probably, rescued from the rag pile to live on as workout gear. She’s claimed the bird for her own, wearing it like a baby strapped to her chest with Yasha’s muddied flannel as the carrier. She looks… maternal, in a strange way. Caleb touches Fjord’s elbow lightly. “C’mon, let’s go. Time is ticking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Warning Call by CHVRCHES.


	10. in the world my demons cultivate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang investigates a mine. Shaft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a minute! I've been working on a bunch of stuff, some of it adjacent to this fic, so keep an eye out for fun updates. In the meantime I've decided to update once a week starting today, on Fridays. Hopefully everyone is still having fun on this crazy ride!

_Three years prior. Nott._

The Widogast family had a pond out back of their quaint little farmhouse. Nott hated it. So bloody picturesque, with waterlilies and a cute stream that ran through their garden and emptied into the pond itself. Whenever she sat on the back porch with Caleb she tried not to look directly at it.

“We can move somewhere else if you like.”

Nott’s ears swiveled before her head did, turning in Caleb’s direction. He was bundled up in blankets against the early autumn chill, hands dwarfed by an enormous cup of tea that steamed his glasses from below. His red hair was getting long, long enough to put in a ponytail, but he left it hanging in heavy red strands around his face. Not short enough to curl properly, it frizzed instead, making him look vaguely like a wild sheepdog who spent his days running riot through the moors.

“I’m fine out here,” she said. “Are you good? You’re comfortable, have enough blankets? Do you need more tea? Do you need me to—”

“Nott,” he interrupted, so quietly she barely heard him. She snapped her teeth shut and hated the sharp _clack_ they made against her palate. “I’m fine. Thank you.” He took a ginger sip of his tea. “But we can move indoors if the pond makes you uncomfortable.”

Nott shook her head furiously, so that the beads swinging from her ears smacked the sides of her face. “It’s all good. You need to spend more time outside.”

Caleb turned his eyes across the back yard, face weirdly expressionless. “Does this really count?”

“I don’t know. _I_ think so. There’s… air, and stuff. And it smells nice.” Mrs. Widogast had a lovely garden, full of brambly creeping things that bloomed profusely in spite of their thorns. Nott liked to spend her free time picking through the narrow, twisting paths in search of little treasures: twigs, clothespins, abandoned snail shells. She already had a small collection in her bag. “Maybe we can walk through the garden in a bit, if you’re feeling up to it.”

A flicker of a smile touched Caleb’s cheek, above the orangey stubble growing in on his jaw and upper lip. He’d never had a beard before he went to college. It made him look a lot older—and a lot dirtier, but Nott didn’t mind that part. “I’d like that,” he said, peering down the length of the porch to where his mother was bent over weeding, just out of earshot.

Nott liked Mrs. Widogast, for the most part. Once they got past the initial… misunderstanding. She was a hard-working woman, a bit dour, but when your son was a nervous wreck and your husband came back from the front lines in a wheelchair, Nott imagined it was hard to be full of pep _all_ the time.

Footsteps padded through the house and the screen door whined gently on its hinges, dragging Nott’s ears around as if by force. She didn’t need to look—the smell of patchouli and sage was undeniable.

“Hullo friends,” Molly chimed, leaning against the doorframe without stepping out entirely. From the corner of her eye Nott saw the crimson flicker of his latest thrift store find, a horrible ankle-length silk smoking jacket, and she grimaced. “Nice to see you too, kid.”

Nott sighed and bounced off the porch swing, tail flicking irritably behind her. “We’re having a fine time out here, Molly, you don’t need to be on babysitting duty yet.”

“Fuck off, Nott,” Molly said mildly. “I’m tired of being cooped up, that’s all.”

“Maybe we can take that walk now.” Nott braced her hands on her hips and looked to Caleb. He was still sitting quietly on the swing, tea in his lap, pushing himself very slightly back and forth with his sock feet braced against the ground. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Cay. Hey Caleb. Shortstack.”

Caleb sighed deeply and cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “That nickname is patently false, Notterina. Give me another.”

“Oh, fuck _you_.”

“Fuck you too,” Caleb grinned, and then the good humor winked out of his eyes like a light had been switched off. Nott turned and watched as Mrs. Widogast climbed the porch steps. She didn’t _look_ offended, but she was hard for Nott to read in general.

“I’m headed to the store for a few things,” she said to the trio at large, though her eyes were on her son. The same deep blue, but hers were crinkled at the edges with smiles and weathering, and her pale lashes had been licked with black mascara to make them long and spidery. She tucked a strand of dark grey hair behind one ear. “Does anyone need anything?”

“I’m all right, danke,” Caleb whispered. He still looked vaguely ill, like he was braced for a reprimand on account of his language; but nothing came.

“Same,” Nott said with a shrug. She could have done with an energy drink or something—Caleb had made her promise not to bring alcohol into his parents’ house, and she had no intention of breaking that trust—but she wasn’t really comfortable asking Caleb’s mum for things like that. Silly things, trivial things just for her. If it couldn’t help Caleb in some way, it wasn’t worth asking for.

Molly clearly had no such compunctions. “I would just _love_ a pack of Arizonas, if you can manage it. Otherwise I’m dandy.” He smiled winningly at her, and to Nott’s shock, Mrs. Widogast actually… smiled back. It was slight, barely more than the dimpling of her cheeks, but it was there.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When she had gone, Nott sighed and looked at Caleb. “How about that walk?”

“Ja, okay.” In spite of his assent, it took Caleb a minute to get off the swing. He was like that now, sometimes—like he had to really channel his intent into movement. Like the connection between his brain and his body was running on dial-up instead of Wi-Fi.

“Upsy-daisy,” Molly said when Caleb was standing. He looped an arm through Caleb’s as Nott rearranged the blanket over his shoulders. “Where to, oh fearless leader?”

Caleb squinched his nose in thought. “Around the front. I want to see how Yasha is coming along.”

The Widogast farmstead was modestly-sized, built by one of Caleb’s great-great grandfathers or some such, but it took them a good fifteen minutes to mosey around the house to the two-car driveway. They could hear Yasha before they saw her: not her voice, but the evidence of her presence written in the scrape of old paint and the whine of a power drill. When they came around to the front, Yasha was perched like a gargoyle on top of the old Dodge Commander she’d purchased a few months ago, doing something drastic to the roof. Mr. Widogast was in his chair a little ways away, picking through the toolbox on his lap, but when he saw them he beckoned them over with a friendly wave.

“It’s looking good, Yash!” Molly called over the shriek of the drill. Yasha flipped the switch and hiked the drill up to rest against her shoulder, swinging one leg off the edge. “Need any help?”

“I wouldn’t say no to an extra hand or two,” Yasha said with a shrug. “Mr. Widogast, can you throw me that pack of drill bits?”

“Not a problem.” He plucked the required item out of the toolbox and threw it unerringly up to Yasha, who snatched it out of the air without even blinking. Nott gave them a round of applause. “Danke, danke. And what are you three up to?” He squinted at them over the frames of his coke bottle glasses, feigning suspicion. “Looks like trouble to me.”

“Just out for a walk, Papa,” Caleb said quietly. He went to his father when Mr. Widogast extended a hand and kissed the top of his head obediently. “Yasha, is he being helpful or is he being a pest? You can tell him to leave you alone, you know.”

“That would be quite rude, I think,” Yasha replied, but she was smiling. “Eofric has been _very_ helpful. More helpful than the lot of you, anyway.”

“I am at your service!” Molly declared, presenting himself dramatically for inspection. “Mr. Widogast, what do you think? Am I suitable for service?”

Caleb’s father drew a calculating expression over his kindly face. It sat a little too well for Nott’s liking. She’d gone snooping in the den almost as soon as they arrived—she knew what he’d done during his time on the front lines. Caleb probably didn’t, and she had no intention of bursting that worshipful bubble.

“You’ll do, son,” Mr. Widogast proclaimed, and Molly shimmied to the ladder bolted to the Commander’s side in victory.

Nott tugged on Caleb’s sleeve. “Should we help, or do you just want to sit and watch?”

It was a habitual question. Ever since Yasha had brought her rig over to work on it in the Widogast’s driveway (to Eofric’s delight), Nott had made a point to try and include him on its renovation. She was determined that it would be good for him. Get his hands dirty, remember what it felt like to be a kid again, smashing things apart and learning how to put them back together. Break his muscle memory down to brass tacks. He had yet to take her up on it.

“I don’t know,” Caleb said after a moment. It wasn’t an outright _no_ , Nott thought to herself wearily. Maybe next week—or next month?—he would actually hem and haw a bit before conceding a _maybe_.

“Well, you let me know when you do. I’m going to go take a look at the wiring again, see if I can’t figure something out.”

“Okay.” He reached out and patted her roughly on the head. “Don’t break it too badly.”

“Eh, Yasha will forgive me.” She squeezed his hand and scampered off to crawl under the Commander’s hood. Always, always, keeping her ears trained for the sound of her best friend’s voice.

* * *

_Present day._

The wind in the fields of Mineshaft State Park tastes like midsummer. It blows low through the grass, catching up insects and pollen and flecks of seed, and carries it far and wide—over hillocks and into hidey holes, and high, high into the sky where Frumpkin coasts on the warm updrafts hazing off the hillsides.

Caleb is nervous. He doesn’t _do_ this. Summoning his familiar is the only magic he allows himself, mostly because it’s hardly magic at all. The barest thought brings Frumpkin to him, and besides, he’s a licensed therapy animal. _Fey familiar: domestic shorthair cat,_ it says on his card. All very legal and legitimate. 

This is an entirely different thing. This is sitting down in a grassy field, stomped flat by Jester and Nott, and concentrating. This is taking his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through backlogs of old saved photos to scans of a family heirloom written in a spidery, cramped script he doesn’t recognize. This is whispering words of power and crumbling dried clay in his palm, hoping it will work—strung taut with tension even when it _does_ work, and the neat-pawed cat before him transforms into a sparrow with round beady eyes and a curious black blotch at the tip of each wing.

It’s late afternoon. They’ve covered a lot of ground between them, but it doesn’t feel like enough. They’re all bone-tired, even after a twenty minute break to rest and shovel down energy bars and gatorade, and the pressure is mounting. The further they go, the worse it feels. Have they missed something? Overlooked some vital clue? Are they going in an entirely wrong direction, or did the kids somehow walk miles and miles last night, in darkness, over ground that was rough and treacherous beneath the smooth grass?

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Fjord says, kneeling beside him. He’s the only one who's stayed close. The others have fanned out in a loose semi-circle to give him space, and Caleb is grateful for it, but the warm weight of Fjord crouched nearby feels like a lifeline.

“Yes I do.” He stares at bird-Frumpkin, small and fragile. When he holds out a finger, Frumpkin hops on board and cocks his head at Caleb as if to say _are you ready?_ He isn’t ready. But it doesn’t matter. The missing teens are more important. “Will you hold my hand?” he asks, too numb with fear to be ashamed.

“‘Course I will.” Fjord settles himself crosslegged, facing Caleb, their knees nearly touching. He reaches out and, slowly, watching Caleb’s face, puts his hands on Caleb’s legs. Caleb flicks his finger and Frumpkin takes off, soon no more than a speck of brown against the vast sky. He draws a shaky breath and takes hold of Fjord’s wrists. Leans forward until Fjord meets him halfway, brow to brow. Caleb can smell sweat and mud. And just the slightest whiff of aftershave. He drags in a big lungful of it and lets himself slide… _out._

Frumpkin’s vantage point is enormous. The sea of grass spreads out in every direction, endless, pierced by the weaving paths of animals and the occasional rocky knolls that rise up like a small islands. And in the center, down below, Caleb can see himself and Fjord bowed together, cradled in the endless green.

 _West,_ Caleb tells him, and Frumpkin responds, winging out into the empty sky. The wind is a hollow rush in his ears, the ground so far away, but he can still feel Fjord’s hands on him, the steady metronome beat of Fjord’s heart under Caleb’s thumbs. Caleb tries to relax his grip a little, and refocuses on Frumpkin.

Over time, his heart rate settles. He grows used to the sound of the wind and the ruffle of his-Frumpkin’s feathers as his familiar darts here and there, swooping low on his command. For a little while, there is nothing else. And then, out of the grass, a smear of black.

Frumpkin is very nearly out of their range, but he flitters down, down in a dizzying spiral. Caleb leans with him and feels Fjord lean, too, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady. Frumpkin lands and hops about, pecking the dirt for grubs.

_Look. Please, please look right…_

It’s out of pure good fortune that Frumpkin turns his head. Caleb heaves for breath. There’s a discarded hoodie laying on the ground, speckled with grass seed. One of the sleeves trails off and is trapped beneath what looks like an old metal utility door, rusted into a reddish-brown. The KEEP OUT sticker plastered to its center has almost corroded away.

“It’s them,” he gasps, coming out of it. He’s dizzy for a moment, stomach pitching wildly in complaint, but Fjord is there holding him down to earth, and his head rights itself. “I found them—I think. Come on, this way.”

They abandon their strung-out formation for single-file, trotting through the grass at a decent clip. Caleb isn’t much for athletics, but a combination of energy drinks and adrenaline push him faster than he would normally go, following the little shape of Frumpkin winging through the grass ahead of them.

He nearly stumbles over the trapdoor, and the small cement pad it’s settled in. The hoodie is still there—it looks much smaller now than it did from Frumpkin’s view. Caleb freezes, but Fjord goes right down to his knees to tug the fabric free of the door and search the pockets. A tube of chapstick and some crumpled receipts fall out, illegible from washing, but no identification; even the tags have been cut out.

“Should we go inside?” Nott whispers. She sidles up close to Caleb, hunched over a little so that she barely comes up to his elbow.

“I think we’re gonna have to.” Fjord takes the hoodie and folds it, strangely tender.

Caleb swallows past the lump in his throat. “Shouldn’t we call Bryce?”

“We can at least take a look around, first. Make sure it’s not a total dead-end.” Fjord glances around the group, now huddled grimly in a knot. “Who wants to go first? I don’t mind, but it might be a tight fit.”

Nott sighs. “I guess that’s me then, huh?”

“We ain’t gonna force you—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine. Let me just…”

“Here.” Jester digs around in her backpack and hands over her flask without even being asked. “I’m always prepared for the worst.”

“Thanks, Jess.” Nott tips her head back and the flask with it, throat glugging as she downs a healthy couple of mouthfuls. Then she shakes her head, coughs a bit, and tucks the flask into the rear pocket of her shorts. “Right. Someone wanna tie a rope around my waist or something?”

Caleb handles the rope, sturdy stuff pulled from Jester’s magical bottomless pack (or so it seems), and Fjord heaves on the metal door. He strains and puffs for a moment before Yasha gets involved, and together they heave it wide and let it slam back against the cement pad with a _crash._

“There’s no way a couple of kids got that open,” Yasha says, dusting off her hands.

“Cool, so there’s probably no one in here.” Nott plucks at the rope around her waist, testing the knots, and nods in satisfaction. “What was this place, anyway?”

“Access for an old mine shaft?” Beau shrugs. “Who knows. You want a flashlight, too?”

“Might as well.” Nott takes the flashlight Jester proffers and stuffs it through one of her belt loops. “Whoever’s got the other end, don’t fuckin’ let go on me, okay?”

“There’s like, ladder rungs and shit,” Beau announces, leaning over the hole. Caleb leans next to her, peering into the dark. The walls are cement, dark with mold and slick, and true to Beau’s word, a set of metal ladder rungs marches down the wall as far as he can see. Which isn’t very far. He drags himself away, fighting back the chill of vertigo.

Nott takes another swig of her flask to fortify herself and turns about, one hand on the rungs and one around the rope. Yasha takes the other end and loops it twice around her waist, with enough give to let it out as Nott descends.

“Wish me luck!” Nott chirps, voice quavering. And she begins to climb.

Caleb situates himself quietly by the hole and sits there, crosslegged, watching Nott disappear into the murk. The rope slips by, rasping gently against the metal lip of the hatch. It’s barely even taut, and Yasha’s calm face is unconcerned as she lets it out bit by bit in time with Nott’s pace, but it still gives Caleb a horrible knotting sensation in the pit of his stomach to watch the tail of the rope uncoil, growing shorter and shorter, with no sign of stopping.

Suddenly the rope slips a bit and Yasha braces, forearms flexing to keep it steady. They all scramble to the hatch, peering down—Caleb catches a glimpse of the flashlight beaming wildly against the mildewed walls, and then darkness.

“Nott!” he shouts down. He’s expecting an echo, but the hole swallows his voice and doesn’t spit it back up. After a moment there’s a muffled _fuck_ and Nott’s voice lifts to his ears, scraped thin—

“Dropped the fucking flashlight!”

They all sigh, shoulders drooping, but Caleb can’t relax. “Do you see anything?”

“Not yet! Almost near the…” and her voice trails off into mumbling, capped by a sibilant whisper that might be a muffled _shit._

Jester wrings her hand anxiously. “We should have agreed on a signal or something. One tug for _all’s well_ , two for _pull me up_.”

“Bit late for that now.” Molly settles back on his haunches. His phone is in his hand and he’s peering at the screen, red eyes turned to slits in outrage. “I’m not getting a signal out here, by the way. In case that’s of interest to anyone.”

“Someone needs to go down and see if Nott’s all right,” Fjord says, but Yasha holds up a hand.

“Wait. The rope is slack.” She stands over the shaft, rope dangling down from around her waist, breeze stirring her long ponytail against her back. “She’s coming back up.”

Everyone backs away a little to give her room, and almost faster than Yasha can gather the rope, Nott streams out of the hole and pops onto the cement, breathing very fast, a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek. She blinks and rubs her eyes furiously against the light and then holds up a hand before anyone can say anything.

“Guys. Guys, holy _fuck_.”

“What? What did you see down there?” Caleb asks, dreading the answer. “Did you find the kids?”

“No—no, not the kids. But guys. I think…” She lowers her voice and beckons them all in until they form a tight knot around her, shoulder to shoulder. “I think someone is living down there.”

“ _What_?” Beau hisses. “What the fuck! Like, living underground? Is it a mole person? Or like an escaped convict or something?”

“Shut up,” Molly snaps, swatting the back of her head. “Let the girl speak.”

“Not a girl, but thanks. I didn’t stick around to like, _look_ -look, and I left my flashlight down there—I mean _your_ flashlight, Jess, sorry—but there was like. Mats on the floor? And an electrical panel, and lights and stuff.”

“Were they turned on?” Fjord asks.

“No, but like—I feel like they _could_ be. But that’s besides the point.” Nott waves her hands, settling herself. “There was like a little room right off the access shaft—shut up, Jester—and I saw… _things_. Like a table and chairs, and… stuff on the table.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I…” She trails off, rubbing the smut from her cheek. “I didn’t really get a good look.”

“No sign of the kids, though,” Yasha reiterates.

“I… don’t think so. But. There was more to it, deeper in, but I was scared to go by myself.” Nott chews on her lower lip and looks to Caleb.

“You did the right thing coming back,” Caleb told her. “Now that we know there _is_ stuff down there, we can all go and there’ll be safety in numbers. And we’ll be able to cover more ground.”

“I don’t know, Caleb.” Yasha fingers the rope, eyes unfocused in the direction of the shaft like she’s deep in thought. The tail end of the rope still dangles over the edge. “If there _is_ someone else down there, there’s no telling how dangerous it could be.”

“It’s just a bunch of old mining junk,” Beau says, tossing her hair. “Break room shit. I’ll go, if the rest of you are too scared.”

“Wait, wait.” Caleb’s fingers twitch and a moment later Frumpkin alights there, perched between the first and second knuckle of his forefinger. “Take Frumpkin with you, and send him ahead. That way we’ll know if we’re getting in… too deep.”

“ _Too deep in the shaft_ ,” Jester says in a put-upon basso voice, and then bursts into snickers. “Nice.”

“Jester,” Fjord sighs. “I guess we should investigate a little more. Maybe no one’s home?”

“What about our phones?” Molly puts in at last. “If I barely have signal here, we’re definitely not getting anything in or out down there.” He kicks the side of the cement pad with his combat boot. “Also, who’s going down? I’m game for anything, but maybe we should have someone stay up here to keep an eye out?”

“I’ll stay,” Yasha volunteers. “I’m claustrophobic. I’d really rather not try and squeeze myself down there. And someone should watch the bird, anyway, unless Jester wants to—”

“I want to go!” Jester interrupts, quickly echoed by Beau and Molly. Caleb and Fjord look at each other across the open hatch.

“I’d better,” Caleb says. He chucks Frumpkin lightly under the chin. “So I can stay in contact with this guy. I’ll send him up if we’re in dire need of help.”

“Sounds good. Yasha, you keep tryin’ your phone and see if you can’t finagle a signal. Try and get Bryce on the line.” Fjord leans down and tightens the laces on his boots. “Nott, would you mind leadin’?”

“No problemo, chief.”

Nott checks the rope around her waist again and takes another swig from her flask. Her eyes are starting to look a little bit glassy and Caleb curses himself for not finding time to switch out the contents with water. He reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder as she readies herself to climb back down.

“You all right?”

“Wh—I’m fine! Geddoff.” She bats his hand away. “If I die, light me on fire and send me out to sea!” And down she goes.

“Well that’s morbid,” Molly says, sounding strangely delighted as he leans over the hole to watch her go. “I’ll go next, I suppose. If I die… um… bury me with my tits out?” He shrugs and begins the climb.

“I will bring up the rear.” Caleb waves Beau forward, then Fjord, then Jester, pouting at being left ’til nearly last. When it’s just him and Yasha, Caleb takes a moment to center himself. He looks up at the sky, the same brilliant blue arching overhead that had dragged him out of the tent that morning. Frumpkin hops into the folds of his scarf and fluffs his feathers there in comfort.

“You gonna be okay?” Yasha asks. She’s already settled herself on the cement pad, rope still braced around her sturdy waist, phone in hand. In the other she’s got a thick walking stick that Beau had picked up at the edge of the swamp, and she’s holding it braced on the ground between her feet like a Viking war goddess taking a breather between battles. The bird is still in its makeshift cradle on the ground, and seems to be sleeping. Caleb soldiers up and nods, drawing courage from her placid calm.

“I’m great. I’ll, uh… see you on the other side, ja?”

“Don’t take too long.” She drops him a wink, a barely-there flutter of lashes that could almost be waved away as a blink or a twitch. Caleb shakes his head.

“You’re as bad as Jester.”

“Ha. That’ll be the day. Get going, Widogast, before they get tired of waiting.” She snaps the rope lightly against the opening. Caleb swings his feet down onto the rungs and begins to lower himself into the shaft.

The cold is the first thing he notices, even before the dark and damp. It creeps up and envelopes him from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and the metal rungs under his hands are cold, too, and flecked with rust. He tucks his chin into his scarf, feeling Frumpkin fluff against his cheek, and counts the rungs to keep focus. _Eins. Zwei. Drei. Vier…_

_Achtzehn._

His foot hits level ground and he stumbles a little, back into a warm body. He catches a hint of patchouli under the rank dampness and smell of old dirt, and relaxes, letting Molly steady him from behind.

“All right?” Molly says, very close to his ear. Caleb’s neck prickles pleasantly.

“Ja. I’m fine.” He reaches back and fumbles for Molly’s hand. The tiefling clings back, and together they walk into the next room, breathing in the funk of a long-closed-up space.

The others have already spread out and are looking around. The rusty iron table and chairs are there, looking untouched to Caleb’s eye as the bleached glow of Nott’s flashlight passes over them. The floor is flat cement, crumbling in places, littered with rubble and dirt and old, desiccated leaves. Beyond the first little room, which _does_ feel sort of like a break room or just a tiny entryway before the main event, a blackened doorway gapes into emptiness like a missing tooth. Caleb shivers and backs up against the opposite wall. Molly goes with him, still bound by their interlaced fingers, watching everything with sharp, curious red eyes.

“Tracks,” Beau says suddenly, dropping to her haunches near the open doorway. Caleb’s eyes flicker with phantom shapes in the washed-out grey, conjuring stiff-limbed, long-legged creatures hoving just out of reach of the flashlight, but Beau remains unmolested. “They look fresh. See? Don’t—fucking step in it, Nott. Adidas, right there.”

She points, and the others gather round to inspect the footprint. Caleb reluctantly follows Molly’s gentle tug, maneuvering himself so that Fjord is between him and the empty door.

“So they definitely came this way.” Fjord rubs the back of his head in thought. “We should tell Yasha to call Bryce.”

“She’s trying,” Molly puts in. “Whether she can reach them or not is another question.”

“So what,” Beau says, “we just sit here and wait for the cavalry? It could be ages before they get here, and the kids could be trapped down there somewhere. Who knows how deep these mine shafts go.” She tweaks Jester’s nose at the snicker that erupts. “Fjord?”

Fjord shifts his weight and glances back at Caleb, for some reason. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look,” he allows. “Nott, d’you want to scout ahead again? Does anyone know what’s further on?”

“I don’t mind,” Nott slurs. She’s standing upright well enough, but the tone of her voice is worrying. She’s never this brave unless she’s got one too many drinks in her. She brandishes her flashlight like a weapon and flounces through the open door.

Inexplicably, Caleb’s heart rises in his throat, nearly choking him as the shadow curl around Nott’s form. Her flashlight cuts the dark, but only just—watery grey pools against the walls and floor of the hallway as she walks along it, tottering downward and then curving out of sight. The glow fades, and fades, and then, like a pinched-out firefly, it goes out.

“Caleb, you’re hurting me,” Molly says, very calmly.

Caleb realizes he’s practically grinding the bones of Molly’s hand together and releases him with a fumbled apology. The others are looking at him, illuminated by the faint white aura of Beau’s phone screen, and he hunches his shoulders against their focus. “Sorry. I don’t like the dark.”

> _Twelve hours. No food, no water. You may use only what you find, and what you remember of your studies. Do you understand?_
> 
> _Yes, sir._
> 
> _Caleb steels himself against the Professor’s flintrock eyes and walks into the black._

“Hey.” Fjord leans close, rubbing shoulders, one broad hand at the small of his back. “You can go back up, you know. We’ve got enough of us down here to do the job, and I’m sure Yasha would appreciate the company.”

Caleb shakes his head wordlessly. He lifts a hand to his throat, feeling for sparrow-Frumpkin, and his familiar lets out a small _peep_. “I have to be here. For Nott.”

As if summoned by her own name, they hear pattering footsteps growing louder down the hall, distorted by distance and the curvature of the walls. A glow is kindled, and grows, and then suddenly there’s a blinding flash of white light and Nott skids into the midst of them, nearly bowling Jester off her feet.

“Sorry, sorry,” she hisses, patting at Jester’s face in gentle, haphazard apology. “You guys, I was right. There is _definitely_ someone down here with us.”

“Like the kids?” Jester asks. “Or like a convict?”

“I _don’t know_ , okay? I heard someone moving around, shifting boxes and things—there’s storage down there, and then two more tunnels. I saw a little bit of a person and then nothing.”

They all look at each other, taken aback by Nott’s ferocity.

“Well this is officially creepy as _fuck_ ,” Beau says decidedly. She braces her hands on her hips, chest out a bit, chin high. “I don’t mind exploring more, but I’m sure as hell not going alone.”

“No one is going anywhere alone,” Fjord soothes. He holds up a hand. “Hang on, what’s that?”

Out of the dark comes a fluttering sound, like giant moth wings, or the soft breaths of a wild, skittering beast. Caleb’s heartbeat jackknifes, thrumming along in counterpoint—and then a tiny coal-black bird flits out of the darkness and lands right on Jester’s head. Jester freezes. “What…”

“It’s a bird,” Molly says quickly, a hand on her elbow to calm her. “Just a little bird. It looks… like a hummingbird, but I’ve never seen that coloration before…”

His voice trails off at the sound of footsteps and the neat, brisk _click_ of something tapping against the cement tunnel. A stick of some kind? Nott swings around, shining her flashlight down the hall.

A figure emerges slowly into the light, tall and spindly and slightly stooped. An older man, with a shock of white hair against dark skin and pale, milky eyes that stare into nothing. Everyone quells back, shrinking toward the exit—and yet Caleb, strangely, is not afraid, perhaps for the first time since descending into the mines. The stranger smiles, exposing straight white teeth and a single golden canine that matches the gold-inlaid handle of his walking stick.

“Friends,” says the man, in a voice like rich, frothy mead, “my apologies for the scare. My name is Shakäste, and I am at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter before the live show, and when Shakaste showed up..... it just felt like fate :D
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr (erebones)! I also have a ko-fi page if you like my work and want to chuck me a few buckeroos (you can find the link on my tumblr page). Thanks!
> 
> The track for this chapter: yes i'm changing by tame impala


	11. there could be something right past the turnpike gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang conducts a rescue mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I've decided to update on Fridays, but considering I'm already five chapters ahead we'll see how long it takes me to cave and start posting twice a week. As you may notice, this is also now part of a series. I'll be posting occasional missing scenes or side stories from other perspectives, either from the main story or from flashbacks. A bit of beauyasha is our first outtake, and in another chapter or two we'll have another, so subscribe to the series to see it!

_9 years prior. Nott._

_Bounce bounce bounce._ Jester couldn’t sit still. It had only been ten minutes, and already she was fidgeting with her chipped nail polish and wiggling in place, the ragged toes of her much-loved converse bumping rhythmically against the underside of the seat in front of them. Luckily there was no one sitting there—the whole bus was empty except for them and some rando Nott didn’t recognize, sprawled in the back listening to _My Immortal_ at full volume.

_Smack smack smack smack—_

“Jester, stop kicking,” Nott said without looking up from her gameboy. The bus driver wasn’t paying them any attention—poor sod was probably used to it, this time of year—but she didn’t want to tempt fate. Plus she was trying to beat this stupid Mario level and she couldn’t do it with Jester vibrating at approximately two gazillion gigawatts right next to her.

“I can’t! Sit! Still! We’re _almost there_ , Nott!” Jester exclaimed, bouncing even more industriously in place.

“Bouncing around like a jack-in-the-box isn’t going to help us get there faster,” Nott observed, but she finally put her gameboy away and sat up on her knees to peer over Jester’s shoulder. The trees were getting thicker, the road more and more bumpy as they drew closer. A little thrill of excitement wormed its way through Nott’s fingers, and she tugged restlessly at her own hair in an effort to keep her hands to herself.

“Hey.” Jester grabbed her hand and examined Nott’s much-bitten nails. “Will you let me paint them for you?”

“Right now?”

“Why not? I brought _soooo_ many colors with me!” She dug around in her hot pink Jansport and started dumping handfuls of nail polish on the seat between them. Green and pink and purple and blue and grey and black—

“That one,” Nott said, sticking the side of her thumb in her mouth. “Black, with the shimmery shit.”

“Good choice.” Jester turned away from the window at last, leaving a smear from her nose behind on the dirty glass, and scooped all the little half-full bottles back into her bag. She brandished the one Nott had chosen and squinted at the underside. “It’s called _Luck of the Dice_!” she proclaimed, and unscrewed the cap, releasing the pungent sting of polish into the humid air. “Give me your hand.”

Credit where credit was due—Jester was a decent nail artist. In spite of the bumpy road, she managed to keep the polish _mostly_ on Nott’s fingernails, blowing on them in between coats to make them dry faster. The muffled soundtrack from the back of the bus changed over to _Danger Days_ , and Nott started tapping her toes against the tacky linoleum floor in time to the music.

This was her favorite time of year. School was out, with the requisite half-assed week given over to exams and long study halls spent dozing, or doodling, or snitching worn-down erases from her classmates until the monitor got tired and sent her home. And then, finally, the train ride to Trostenwald Station, taken on her own for the fifth year in a row before meeting Jester for the bus ride to Camp Moondrop.

“Beautiful,” Jester declared, sitting back at last. She held Nott’s hand in her own like Nott was a princess, wrist angled just so, short black nails sparkling when they caught the green light filtering in through the trees.

“Just in time, too.” Nott pointed over Jester’s shoulder and nearly got smacked in the face by her friend’s flailing limbs as she turned to press her face to the glass.

“ _There it is!_ ” Jester shrieked, provoking an irritated glare from the bus driver.

Nott scrambled out of the way as Jester squeezed past her to the aisle and began jumping in place, up and down, tail lashing back and forth with glee. “I wonder if anyone else is here already,” Nott said over the rumble of the bus shifting to a lower gear.

“Fjord is here!” Jester sang. “He texted meeee on his brand new phone!”

“He has a phone?” Nott asked. She absolutely was _not_ jealous. (She was maybe a little jealous.)

“He bought it himself with the money he made working at the docks! And now that he’s a junior counselor he _needs_ one, he says. Phah.” Jester whirled and began scooping up her things and shoving them into her backpack from where they’d scattered across the seat and floor: lip gloss, phone charger, sparkly gel pens, a half-eaten Twix bar. Nott watched with mild interest, resisting the urge to pick at her new nails. “I bet he’s like, _super_ buff now, and he’s going to be _so_ popular and _so_ annoying, we won’t even want to hang out with him anymore.”

Nott hoped that wouldn’t prove true. She liked Fjord. She and Fjord and Caleb and Beau had become a unit over the last few years, stronger together against the fickle tides of summer camp social stratification before Jester joined them, lending their group some _rich mysterious parent_ legitimacy. She didn’t want to have to stop hanging out with Fjord. They were green buddies.

The bus pulled to a halt in front of the camp’s administrative building, and before Nott had a chance to voice her fears, Jester was off the bus and running across the gravel path check in. Yasha was sitting outside waiting for them and waved a greeting with her clipboard.

“Hey guys. First bus of the day, huh?”

“I’m so excited!” Jester yelled, and jumped straight into her arms. Nott hung back a little, ratty green satchel hanging off her shoulder, and looked around for the others.

“Fjord and Caleb are inside working on orientation stuff,” Yasha said when Jester released her. She ticked both their names off her clipboard and added the date in her firm, blocky hand. “You can go say hi if you want. Hi, Nott.”

“Hey Yash.” Nott allowed herself a high five—Yasha wasn’t much for physical affection, although she put up with Jester’s exuberance willingly enough—and trotted into the building with Jester hot on her heels.

The doors swung open easily and warm air pushed in at their backs, clashing with the mildewy cold of the building’s ancient air conditioning unit. There were a few people scattered throughout the main room, heads bowed over counselor paperwork, in pairs or triples or alone. Molly was there, too—perks of being the foster kid of the camp founder—sprawled on a couch with one arm over his eyes and tail twitching sleepily as Toya braided his hair. It was longer than it had been last summer. He’d put on weight, too, Nott noted approvingly, and then her attention was redirected as Jester cannonballed across the room to one of the occupied tables.

“Hello hello hello!” she cried, dumping her bag on the floor and pressing kisses to the top of Caleb’s head. The ever-present knot of anxiety buzzing in Nott’s chest quieted a little to see him: six months older and lankier, hair a frizzy mess as usual, nose growing too fast for the rest of his face. He tugged absently on Jester’s tail as she passed him and turned to wave Nott over.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he said quietly when she was close enough, and scooped her up into a one-armed hug. “How was the trip?”

“Fine. Jester did my nails on the bus.” She stuck her hand out for him to see.

“ _Fjord_?” Jester exclaimed, drawing both their gazes away from Nott’s sparkly fingers.

Nott’s jaw dropped. “What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

“Language!” someone complained from a nearby table, but Nott ignored them. Fjord was… _different._ Like, super different. He was taller, and broader, and _greener_ somehow, with thickset brows and a jaw that somehow fit with the rest of him instead of outpacing itself like Caleb’s wonky half-grown features.

“Erm?” Startled by the question, or maybe by her vulgarity, Fjord leaned back in his seat and glanced around the room like he was looking for someone to give him an out. “I don’t… what?”

Jester leaned back, arms akimbo, and stared at him. “Wowwwwwwwwww. I was right, Nott, see? I was _totally right_.”

She _was_ totally right, as usual. Nott’s heart sank like a stone into her stomach. She wasn’t much good at knowing when people were good-looking, but Fjord had always been _comfortable_ , easy-going, quick to laugh and smile, soft around the middle and good for hugging. Now his camp counselor polo was unbuttoned at the throat, and the collar was popped a little bit, and he had a fucking _woven bracelet_ around one wrist that was somehow masculine and effortlessly chill. He looked like he should be on the cover of a yachting magazine, if such things even existed. Nott hated it.

“I, er, I don’t…” Fjord said again, rubbing the back of his neck. Endearingly awkward as ever, in spite of his thickening eyebrows and deeper, raspier voice. He was still filing his tusks down by the looks of it, but his cheekbones were more pronounced and… was that…?

“ _Stubble_?” Jester demanded, reaching out and pinching his cheeks as Nott sidled closer to Caleb. At least _he_ still looked like himself, if slightly more stork-like than she was used to. “Fjord, you’re like, a _man_.”

Nott turned to make a _can you believe this_ face at Caleb, but Caleb was staring determinedly at his paperwork, pink in the cheeks and the tips of his ears. Narrowing her eyes, Nott peered closer. He was gripping his pencil way harder than necessary but he wasn’t even writing with it, and his left foot was tapping frantically against the floor. He was _nervous_? He was…

She looked back at Fjord, who was fumblingly trying to brush off Jester’s delighted teasing. The table was awfully narrow, so narrow that his knees nearly knocked against Caleb’s underneath. _Goddammit._

“I’m going to say hi to Molly,” she said to no one in particular, and escaped before Caleb could ask her what was wrong. _My best friends are being stupid_ was what was wrong, but she didn’t know how to articulate it without sounding like a childish idiot.

“Nottling!” Molly cried when he saw her, waving frantically without moving the rest of him. There was a new splash of color on his face, Nott saw now: a sprawling peacock tail that curled up his neck and jaw to the side of his face, covering up what had once been a super gnarly scar. His hair swooped in fat, short braids as Toya bent closer to her work.

“Stop moving, Molly,” she whispered in her soft little voice. “Hello, Nott.”

“Hey Toya. Hey Moll.” She gave him a high five, too. “Nice ink. Does Gustav know?”

“I’m seventeen...ish,” Molly said with a shrug. “I do what I want.”

“Well, bully for you.” Nott plunked herself down on the battered arm of the couch at Molly’s feet, digging around in her backpack for her flask of cold brew. Molly wiggled his eyebrows at her from his prone position.

“What’s wrong, Nottling? Have a bad trip?”

“The trip was fine,” Nott groused. Her hand closed around smooth metal and she pulled the flask out, unscrewing the cap with a flick of her finger. “Have you seen Fjord?”

“ _Have_ I.” Molly grinned and prodded her with his toes. “Don’t tell me _you_ have a crush on him, too.”

“Ew, no. I don’t like boys.” Mid-swig, Nott realized what that might sound like and hastily covered it with, “I don’t like anyone at all.”

“Uh-huh.” Molly folded his hands across his chest contemplatively. There was a knowing arch to his brow that Nott didn’t like, but he didn’t press her on it. “Well, more for the rest of us, I suppose.”

“Do _you_ have a crush on him?” Nott squawked.

“Shush! Not so loud. _Nott_ so loud, hehe. Ouch, no need to kick!” He reached up and patted Toya’s soft little hands. “Toya, darling, are you almost done?”

“Almost,” Toya said. She made to indications that she was going anywhere.

Molly shrugged and sighed, “Yes, Fjord is very handsome suddenly, it’s all very mysterious and magical. _Hormones_.” He wriggled his fingers like Caleb sometimes did when he was doing a little bit of silly magic to entertain the children. “It’s going to be an interesting summer, that’s for sure.”

Nott sighed and put her head in her hands. “I don’t like it. I don’t want our group to be different this year.”

“It won’t be _that_ different,” Molly soothed. “He’s still his same awkward self. And once Caleb gets over this bout of infatuation, it’ll be like nothing changed at all.”

 _That’s what I’m worried about_ , Nott wanted to say, but she held her tongue. Caleb didn’t _get_ crushes on people. He was like her that way. And now everything was tilting on its head. She took another swig of coffee, trying to let the caffeine settle her. “Can’t wait,” she muttered, casting her eyes across the hall.

Fjord and Caleb were still where she had left them, sitting a little closer than necessary. Jester had skipped over to Beau’s table and was sitting on her lap, giggling into her ear. _Ugh_. Nott had forgotten about that little detail. That annoying, saccharine flower beginning to bud and blossom.

 _You’re starting to sound like a crazy person_ , Nott groused to herself. She rubbed her eyes and took another swig.

It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

_Present Day_

“Shakässste.” Nott echoes the name, dragging it out on her tongue like waves on a beach. Jester lets out an impertinent titter that echoes around the small chamber, and the newcomer’s mouth twitches. From the lines engraved in his expressive face, Caleb thinks that this is a man who is accustomed to smiling easily and often.

“That is my name,” he says agreeably. “And you are?”

“I’m Nott,” pipes Nott, sticking out her hand. There is no reaction and after a moment she drops it again, tail lashing behind her in embarrassment.

“You’ll forgive me,” Shakäste says, “but I’m blind, as you can no doubt tell—how many of you are there? I assume you’re also looking for the missing children.”

“That we are,” Fjord says, and sets about introducing the group.

While he does, Caleb drinks the newcomer in, as best he can in the low light. He doesn’t _look_ like a convict, though Caleb can see Beau eyeing him with a suspicious squint. He’s dressed in practical but well-fitted black jeans, sturdy leather boots, and a fine grey-black turtleneck underneath a casual sport coat—in short, he looks like a professor who got lost on holiday, entirely too well-groomed to seem at home in such a dank place. He even has round, shaded spectacles hanging from a delicate gold chain around his neck, alongside a symbol that Caleb vaguely recognizes as religious.

“Very nice to meet you all,” Shakäste rumbles politely, and Caleb realizes that all the introductions had been made when he wasn’t paying attention. “I am Shakäste, as we established—Reverend Shakäste, but I don’t expect such formality here.” He waves an idle hand, flashing a glint of jewelry at his wrist and ring finger. Not a wedding ring, but thickset, with a large black stone set into the middle of it. Caleb’s nose itches a little, and he buries a sneeze into the crook of his arm. _Magic?_ “Rains bless you, child.”

“Er—thanks.”

The Reverend smiles benevolently. “I attempted to volunteer myself for the search, but the good Watchmaster was of the opinion that my 'handicap' would make me a liability in the field. So, I struck out on my own.”

“No offense, Mr. Reverend Sir,” Jester says, “but… how did you make it this far?”

“Why, the Grand Duchess, of course.”

They all exchange _looks_ , and Fjord clears his throat. “Ah… the who?”

“The Grand Duchess… Anastasia Nikolaevna. My familiar.” He crooks a finger and the dark-hued hummingbird flits from Jester’s horn to his hand with the barest whir of its fingers. “She is my eyes, and occasionally my ears, when the need arises.”

“Ooh!” Jester claps her hands. “Caleb has a familiar, too! His name is Frumpkin and he’s usually a cat, but right now he is a bird. Right Caleb?”

“Ah… ja, that is correct.” Caleb whiffles a bit beneath the sudden weight of Shakäste’s focus, unseeing but still as powerful as a drill to the back of the skull. “He is a sparrow, currently.”

“A quaint animal,” Shakäste says, holding his own familiar close to his chest. The hummingbird all but disappears against the dark backdrop of his clothing, but Caleb can still see the slight iridescent shimmer of its wings in the glare of Nott’s downturned flashlight. “Can he see in the dark?”

“Erm… no. That sounds like a, a handy ability.”

“Oh, very. I would be quite lost without her.” Shakäste lifts his hand a bit, as if to give Anastasia a better view of the room. “Regardless, I am glad you are all here. Seeing in the dark is all well and good, but there is much ground to cover and not a lot of time.”

“They’re down here, then,” Molly says suddenly. “The missing teenagers.”

“Oh, without a doubt. They’ve left quite a little breadcrumb trail for us to follow. You saw the discarded jacket up above, I take it.”

“That’s what drew us here,” Fjord says. “May I ask, Father—ah, Reverend Shakäste—how are you acquainted with these kids?”

“They attend services at my temple, on occasion. Less than they used to, to the dismay of their parents.” Shakäste is still smiling, apparently blithely unconcerned with the piety of his young constituents, but his fingers are tapping a soft tattoo against the handle of his cane. “If you don’t mind terribly, may I suggest we continue the search? I am beginning to fear the worst.”

“They’ve only been missing not even a whole day,” Jester protests. “They’re probably not _happy_ but they are probably _okay_. Right?”

“I would like to think so, of course. But two things concern me. One: how did they even come to this place, out in the middle of nowhere, without hardly leaving a trace? And two: why are they still here, if they are hale and whole?” For the first time since meeting them, the smile drops from Shakäste’s face. “My only conclusion is that they are _not_ hale and whole, but injured. Or worse.”

“ _Dead_?” Jester blurts, before anyone can cast a well-timed elbow her way to prevent her.

“I certainly hope not. But that does bring me to another, less savory possibility, which is: they were brought here by someone, or something. Something that does not want them to leave.”

“Some… thing.” Caleb holds bird-Frumpkin even closer, until the sparrow peeps softly in protest. “I don’t understand.”

That laser-focused attention hones in on him again, and Caleb resists the urge to step behind Fjord. “You’re a magic-wielder, are you not?” Shakäste says. Caleb feels every joint in his body lock up tighter than a drum. “You wouldn’t have a familiar otherwise. Can you not feel the energy of this place? Something old lives here. Something old that has been left alone for a very long time, and now, for some reason, is being pulled toward the light.” He clasps his hand more tightly around his cane, and Caleb can see the faintest glimmer of arcane spark alight in depths of Shakäste’s ring. “I mean to find those children, and I mean to stop it. None of you are particularly far from being children yourselves, in my eyes, but I cannot say I wouldn’t mind the aid.”

Beau leans into Caleb and breathe into his ear, “This dude is totally bonkers.”

Caleb elbows her in the side and clears his throat to cover her slight, though from the smirk decorating Shakäste’s dimpled cheeks he’s already heard. “We’re happy to help,” he blurts out. “We are already here, anyway, so we might as well press on.”

“An excellent idea. I’ve already examined the next few rooms before I heard you arrive, so let’s not waste anymore time, hm?”

They fall in line behind Shakäste, sharing mixed looks. Beau is still scowling with distrust, but Jester and Nott both seem charmed—the first is unsurprising to Caleb, the second a little more strange. Nott isn’t usually so quick to latch onto strangers, but she seems taken with Shakäste’s easy-going demeanor. Or, Caleb thinks to himself, maybe it’s more to do with the tooled leather pouch clipped to his belt, visible whenever a quick turn or a brush of his arm against his side lifts his suit coat away from his body. Caleb tries to sidle closer to her to give her a stern look, but she evades him somehow, so Caleb relegates himself to the back of the line before he can trip over anything and hurt himself.

He is only a little surprised when Fjord drifts back to join him, giving up the tenuous position of leader to their newfound friend. A little surprised, but more relieved—the powerful swell of warmth overtakes everything else and Caleb walks a little closer to him than necessary, letting their hands brush now and then in the darkness.

“I don’t like this very much,” Fjord admits to him in a low voice. He bends closer to Caleb’s ear to avoid being overheard and Frumpkin peeps a soft greeting. “Er, hello there.”

“Is he making your nose itch?” Caleb whispers.

There’s a brief pause, and the sound of Fjord sniffing experimentally. “Nope. Any chance you could keep him like that all the time?”

“Sorry,” Caleb began, but a soft chuckle broke him off.

“I know, I know—I didn’t mean it. I’ll take what I can get.”

What does _that_ mean, Caleb would like to know, but instead of inquiring he prompts, “You don’t like the situation or you don’t like… our new companion?”

“Uh. Both, I guess. One kinda leads to the other.” Fjord gestures loosely with one hand and Caleb, distracted, trips over a bit of something on the floor. Fjord grabs for him before he can pitch forward, and they just stand there for a second, Caleb breathing heavily into Fjord’s chest as his heartbeat rabbits away from him.

“S-sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Fjord pats his back awkwardly, then lingers, like he’s feeling for the thrum of Caleb’s jacked heart rate. “You okay?”

“Fine. Don’t really like the dark, you know.” He peers ahead in the dimness to avoid staring at the dark void of Fjord’s chest. The others have drifted further away, taking the light with them, and Caleb can feel his palms beginning to sweat. “And it smells… unpleasant.”

“Oh. Sorry, that might be me,” Fjord jokes, lifting an arm to smell beneath. Caleb catches a whiff of tangy sweat and faded, day-old cologne and is grateful for the darkness to cover his blush. “Come on, let’s keep up, hey? Stay with the flashlight and all that.”

“Ja, agreed.” Caleb shuffles forward, sliding his feet against the damp, crumbling cement floor, and breathes a grateful sigh when Fjord takes his arm solicitously. “Such a gentleman.”

“Hmm.” Fjord exhales, a little stiffly, and Caleb grins to himself, wishing he could see the nervous twitch of Fjord’s ears with his own eyes.

“Guys!” Nott hisses, her voice echoing and weirdly sibilant in the closed-in space. “What is this?”

Fjord and Caleb pick up the pace simultaneously, and by the time they catch up with the others, everyone is crowded around something set into the wall. It looks like a window, almost, except the back is just cement, and on the narrow sill are three lit candles. Nothing more that tealights, but they look as though they haven’t been burning long. A chill manifests in Caleb’s spine and he clutches Fjord’s arm a little more tightly.

“Did you light those?” Nott quavers. Shakäste shakes his head.

“This is the first evidence I’ve come across that we are not alone down here. Encouraging.”

“ _Encouraging_?” Beau echoes. “More like creepy as fuck.” She shivers and rubs her bared upper arms, which have gone all goosebumpy in the chill of the tunnel. And it _is_ a tunnel now, more than a hallway—the cement is degrading at a rapid rate, exposing dirt and rock beneath as they delve deeper. “I wish Yasha were here.”

“Me, too,” Jester sighs. It’s the first indication she’s given all day that she isn’t having a marvelous time playing rescue, and when Caleb glances her way she’s folded in on herself a little, arms clasped tightly over her chest without her bird or Yasha’s borrowed flannel to keep her warm.

Shakäste clears his throat. “Don’t be too alarmed. There are strange old stories about these mines. Our missing friends probably fancy themselves old-fashioned explorers, striking out underground for riches. The candles are likely just a… spooky touch.”

“Riches?” Nott pipes up, voice wobbly in the dark. “What kind of riches?”

“At this point, probably very little,” Shakäste chuckles. “The mines haven’t been operational in a very long time--plenty of opportunity for looters to come through and scavenge whatever trinkets may have been left over. Come, let us continue on. The Grand Duchess will guide us.”

“What kinds of stories do they tell about this place?” Jester asks as they begin to walk again, a little slower and more tightly-knit than before.

“Oh, all sorts of nonsense. The sort you tell children to keep them from running off--until they become teenagers, and believe they can conquer the world with a flashlight and their wits.”

“Hey,” Nott mutters, insulted, but Shakäste doesn’t seem to hear her.

“The most famous legend goes that there used to be a crotchety old wizard who lived on the outskirts of town. He was hiding from the law, living under a pseudonym so that he could carry on his strange experiments underground without being bothered.” Shakäste’s voice rang low and sonorous around the tunnel, carrying the story like flecks of sand being spilled through an hourglass. Shifting through time. The hairs on the back of Caleb’s neck stood on end. “His underground lab was eventually abandoned when he was caught out by the local Crownsguard, and a few hundred years later… well, no one knows for sure what happened to his workrooms. Destroyed by a cave-in, some say, or covered up by the mining companies.”

“Convenient,” Beau mutters. She almost sounds a little disappointed.

“Convenient indeed,” Shakäste agrees. “But the power of a good story is strong, and children have such delightfully vivid imaginations. How is everyone holding up, by the way? It’s awfully dank and morose down here, isn’t it.”

“I wish it was brighter,” Nott complains. She jiggles her flashlight experimentally and it gives an ominous flicker as the batteries are jolted in their casings. “Fuck.”

“Maybe we should’ve taken the candles with us,” Molly says.

“They’re tealights,” Fjord objects, “hardly worth much light.”

“Well what are we supposed to do, then?” Molly snips back. He’s getting anxious, too. “If Nott’s flashlight goes out, are we going to risk draining our phone batteries out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Wait,” Caleb says, voice cracking in the middle of the word. Frumpkin fluffs against his neck in comfort as he raises a hand and stares determinedly at the back of it. It’s been a while, but it’s just a simple cantrip, something he could do as a small boy lying in bed long after his parents had gone to sleep, too terrified of the dark to shut his eyes. He takes a quavering breath and... _release_.

_Phwomph. Phwomph. Phwomph._

Three balls of light appear in the air above their heads, glowing white, so bright a few of them have to shield their eyes. Their bodies cast long, improbable shadows down the tunnel and against the walls, distorted by the narrow passageway. Caleb sends one on ahead and another behind a little ways, keeping the third just overhead to dance and shimmer like a friendly spirit.

“Is that… is that any better?”

“Holy shit, Caleb,” Beau blurts out. “You just did magic!”

Caleb scrubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, wincing a little against the glare. His hands are shaking, but he hopes that shoving them into his pockets will hide the worst of it. “I—I am a wizard, you know. I can. I can do things.”

Everyone is staring at him, except Shakäste. Nott’s mouth is just open, a round circle as she gapes—Molly looks dazzled, distracted by the slight quiver of the light overhead, like it’s some kind of oversized firefly. Jester is delighted, too, but she’s grinning straight at _him_ like she’s… like she’s _proud_ , and Fjord… Fjord’s eyes are wide, awestruck, with a touch of deep admiration that Caleb remembers from the little magic tricks he used to do to keep a small half-orc boy distracted from his homesickness.

“Please do not stare at me,” he whispers, dropping his eyes to the ground. “I promise it’s nothing.”

It’s _not_ nothing—it’s the first real magic he’s done in years, apart from the occasional snap of his fingers to summon Frumpkin—but none of them are cruel enough to call him on it.

“Well this is perfect,” Fjord says, a little too loudly. “Shall we press on?”

“I agree,” Shakäste says smoothly. And so they do.

Caleb thinks it’s a little unfair that the new brightness of his dancing lights isn’t enough to take the edge off. He really only traded one panic attack for another, and this one is ebbing too slowly for his liking. The magic is done, expended, but the lingering evidence sours the pit of his stomach. At this point, feet dragging along beside Fjord at the end of the line, he’s barely even thinking of the missing kids.

More candles appear as they walk on, filtering in stages along the walls and on the floor. Some are burnt out, but a few still cling to light, the aluminum cups filled with melted wax and little else. Then, abruptly, the passageway splits in two. Both unravel into darkness, but at the junction of the three tunnels is a mess of melted candles, wax melted over wax, mounded up on the bones of the ones that burnt out before them. Iit makes Caleb’s skin feel fit to crawl right off his body.

“This is really weird and creepy,” Jester says in a strained voice. She’s got one arm crossed over her chest to rest against the tattoo on the back of her shoulder, hidden by her borrowed shirt. Caleb wonders if she’s drawing comfort from it, or if she even realizes she’s doing it. Suspending in a similar state of questionable lucidity, he reaches out and grabs Fjord’s hand.

“What is it _from_?” Molly demands, sounding progressively shrill with each word. “Were the kids collecting them or something? Or is this some kind of fucked-up backwater cult thing we’ve gotten ourselves into?”

“I can proceed alone,” Shakäste says gently. “You’ve already come much farther than many others would.” He gestures around them, to the forked tunnels and the low-hanging ceiling, which seems to press against them lower all the time. “I know this is… unsettling, and I would hardly begrudge any of you for turning back.”

“I don’t really know if I want to keep going,” Molly admits into the gloam. Some unsettled murmurs echo him, but nothing really concrete seems to take root.

A tentative hand slips into Caleb’s, making him startle. Nott peers back up at him, her eyes reflected yellow in the glow of his dancing lights. “I think we should keep going,” she says, voice wobbly but determined. He can smell whiskey on her breath, but her grip around his fingers is strong and steady. “If anyone else is too scared of some backwater hicks playing around at being cultists, well—” her voice cracks, “get in line, I guess, but I’m gonna find those kids and bring them home.”

Caleb’s chest swells with pride, and he squeezes her hand in return. Suddenly the overwhelming dark of the tunnels ahead doesn’t seem so bad. “I am with you,” he says, and catches his breath. An echo of something hits his ears, the barest distant whisper of sound. He wishes desperately that Frumpkin were still a cat, with even keener ears and eyes made for cutting through the dark. “What was that? I thought I heard something.”

Nott’s head cocks and her larger ears twitch as they all hold their breath. Caleb doesn’t hear anything more, but her mouth firms decisively and she nods. “I think I heard it. Voices. You all stay here, I’m gonna scout ahead.”

Without waiting for a response, she skitters off down the right-hand tunnel. They wait together in spellbound silence for a minute, then two, then three; no one seems inclined to continue the cultist conversation, and Shakäste doesn’t bring it up again either.

There’s a sudden scrabbling in the tunnel and Nott barrels out at full speed, running straight into Caleb. He manages to keep them both from bowling over backward by sheer virtue of Fjord’s steadying bulk at his back, and immediately begins patting Nott’s face and arms in search of injury.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she blusters, pushing him away. “I found the kids, you guys. I think they fell down some kind of hole, I couldn’t really tell because my flashlight is shit, but we gotta go _now_.”

For the first time in a long time, Caleb finds himself buzzing with pent-up arcane energy. His fingertips tingle and the hair at the back of his neck stands on end as he follows Nott and Shakäste, the two figures vying for the lead as the rest string out behind, illuminated in flashing sepia-tones as the dancing lights follow above their heads. The tunnel’s fragile cement walls finally crumble into wet earth, hard-packed beneath their feet and rounded overhead, and it twists, plunges, following an improbable curvature that Caleb doubts was part of the original construction.

They pile out into a cavern all at once, too big for Caleb’s lights to reach the very end of it. It looks like a dumping ground for old mining equipment: carts are piled off to one side, end over end, and buckets and pickaxes and obsolete power tools are dumped here and there, coated in fine black dust. Nott beckons them over, with great care, to a slag-black patch of ground that turns out to be the hole she described.

Caleb moves toward it, intending to direct his dancing lights over the space, and is jerked back suddenly by a hand at his wrist. It’s Fjord, face gray and strange in the light. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says hoarsely, eyes wide and yellow, pupils nearly shaved to slivers of black. “Don’t go into the water.”

“What?” Caleb tries to shake him off, and he manages it, but it takes effort—Fjord’s grip is nearly bruising in its intensity. “What are you talking about, Fjord, what water?”

The others have passed them by at this point, and it’s just him and Fjord, standing an arm’s length apart in the middle of the dusty, rubble-strewn floor. For the first time since they met with Shakäste, Caleb scrutinizes him closely. He looks strangely pale, like the color has been sucked out to make him a grayscale mimic, and there’s sweat dappling his forehead and the generous bow of his upper lip. He blinks rapidly and seems to peer over Caleb’s shoulder.

“There—I could have sworn there was…”

“There they are!” Nott cries, and Caleb swings around to see everyone crowding gingerly around the hole in the ground. “Caleb, bring your lights! I’m going to run back up and get Yasha’s rope.”

She darts past him, a dark, wild-headed blur, and is gone. Caleb glances back to Fjord. His eyes still seem strange, oddly unfocused, but he makes no move to prevent Caleb from moving toward the pit.

“Easy, easy,” Shakäste is saying, arms outstretched to keep anyone from getting too close. “We don’t want anyone else falling down there. My dears, are you all right? Anyone injured?”

“Caleb,” Beau hisses, beckoning him over. She’s got her shoes off already and is working on her hiking socks, on her ass at the edge of the pit. “Send Frump down, would ya? Do a little recon?”

“Are you going _down_ there?” Caleb whispers back. He can hear Shakäste soothing the frightened teenagers—one of whom seems to have injured a leg in the fall—but Beau’s apparently deathwish is alarming enough to keep him focused entirely on her. “Are you crazy?”

“I climb cliffs that are steeper than this, Caleb. I’m like, super cut.” She flexes one arm in his face and he bats her away irritably.

“This isn’t a joking matter. Are you going to carry them all out by yourself as well?”

“Obviously not! I’m going to help them get high enough that one of you can pull them the rest of the way. The hole’s not that deep. It’s just a little _Homeward Bound_ action.” She stuffs her thick socks into her boots and sets them well away from the hole, then gathers some dust and scuffs her palms and the balls of her feet with it. “It’ll take forever to go back and get Yasha’s rope, this is faster.”

“I am definitely sending Frumpkin down first, though,” Caleb says. He glances around quick for someone to grab. Fjord is still staying well back, looking muddled and unhappy; he seems to be staring off into space, and doesn’t react when Caleb tries to flag him down. He turns and reaches out to Molly instead, who jumps at the contact.

“Sorry,” Caleb whispers. “I need to…” He holds Frumpkin in the palm of his hand and Molly’s eyes widen with understanding.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” Molly covers Caleb’s hand with his own, anchoring him, and Caleb lets himself slip sideways.

Frumpkin’s perspective swallows him and for a moment he is suspended in his own hand, feeling the simultaneous prick of Frumpkin’s claws into his palm and the soft give of his skin beneath Frumpkin’s weight. Then Frumpkin takes to the air, whisking across the mouth of the hole and then _down._ Darkness and light fly past in fractals, the glow of his dancing lights splintered across rough facets of stone, and then Frumpkin alights on a thin, bedraggled shoulder. The kid flinches hard and freezes, terrified, as Frumpkin gets a good look at the others.

There are three altogether, in similarly haggard states; one of them has his leg stretched out in front of him, the foot skewed at an awkward angle, face pale and bloodless. The other, a tomboyish sort with a choppy fringe, leans closer.

“It’s a bird,” they whisper hoarsely, reaching a finger out. Frumpkin hops on and chirps obligingly. “Hello there, little friend. Are you here to save us?”

From overhead, distorted by the hole and Frumpkin’s songbird ears, Beau’s voice filters down: “I’m gonna start climbing now! Don’t worry, I’m a professional. Just keep a space clear for me on the ground if you can.”

“Please hurry!” calls the boy whose shoulder Frumpkin had landed on.

“I’m gonna go as fast as I can without compromising anyone’s safety,” is Beau’s shockingly patient response. Frumpkin tilts his head up to watch. The light is strange and blurry from down here—Beau’s silhouette moving at the edge of the pit seems like it’s moving underwater.

There’s a sharp squeeze on his hand and he flies out of Frumpkin with a gasp. “Sorry,” Molly says, patting his fingers. “We needed you back. The lights…”

Caleb looks around. There are only two globules left, hovering in stasis over the group. “I must’ve lost concentration,” he mutters, and coaxes two more into existence. It’s more of a struggle this time, like pulling at a ball of yarn with a knot deep inside. He pushes one over the edge and down the hole a bit to give Beau more light to work with.

“Thanks man,” she says, and then she disappears altogether. Caleb scrambles to the edge to watch her descent, and not even Shakäste tries to pull her back.

It’s a tense few minutes. Beau moves slowly, methodically, feeling out the sharp rock wall with her toes before descending a couple of inches at a time. The hole itself doesn’t feel manufactured, now that Caleb is looking at it—it’s nothing like the cement tunnels they were traveling through before. This is raw, unvarnished bedrock, with plenty of coarse-cut handholds left by whatever machinery dug it in the first place. Caleb doesn’t know much about mining, but something about it feels older than the rest of their surroundings. Less refined.

Beau makes it to the bottom after about three minutes—the longest three minutes of Caleb’s life. He gives an explosive exhale and sits back, fumbling again for Molly’s hand.

Frumpkin is where he left him, fluffed up and watching everything with bright, beady eyes in the palm of the kid’s hand. He’s taking his therapy animal duties very seriously, even in bird form. He watches as Beau accepts some frantic hugs and tearful thank-you’s from the kids (he can practically hear her biting back the _don’t thank me yet_ ), and does a little rudimentary first aid on the boy with the twisted ankle.

“Either a really bad sprain or a little break,” is her prognosis. She yells down for her socks and gets them, one at a time, dropped neatly onto her upturned face. “Fuck you, Molly!” she calls up, and begins tying them together to use as a brace. “We’re gonna have to wait for the rope to get you up, but the other two should be able to climb out okay. Just get a boost on my shoulders and Jester and Fjord can pull you up. Right guys?”

Caleb zips out of Frumpkin again and glances over his shoulder. At the sound of his name, Fjord seems to have shaken out of whatever dissociative episode he was having and approaches the hole on hands and knees.

“We’ll get ‘em up!” he calls down. “Does somebody have an extra shirt or something we can use to extend our reach?”

“Your suit jacket!” Jester says, pointing to Shakäste. A part of Caleb expects him to prevaricate, but the reverend doesn’t hesitate in shrugging the garment off and handing it over.

A pounding headache is gathering behind Caleb’s eyes. Knowing his own usefulness in this scenario has come to an end, he sits down a little ways away from the pit and folds his hands in his lap, eyes pinned to the strange, otherworldly flicker of his dancing lights. They feel smaller than they were twenty minutes ago, quivering like jelly that hasn’t quite set. But their glow is more than adequate, and that’s what matters. By their pale illumination he watches as Jester and Fjord pull up first one kid, then the other, both trembling and tearful as they throw themselves into Shakäste’s arms.

Frumpkin stays with the third. Caleb can’t muster the energy to look through his eyes again so soon, but he can feel him, small and puffed, nestled between a pounding heartbeat and the brusque but kind voice of Beauregard as it drifts up from the pit. She was always weirdly good with the kids—definitely the best camp counselor out of all of them, in spite of her irreverent ways.

When Nott returns with the rope and Yasha, there is much commotion, but Caleb tunes it all out. His only focus now is the lights. He has to keep them lit. And it’s strange—such a simple cantrip, one he taught himself before he even knew how to pronounce the word properly, and right now it’s all he can do to maintain it. There’s something about being down here, the dark and dust and dank, that sucks the energy right out of him. His limbs feel leaden, head heavy and bowed toward his chest. Eyelids falling slack. He watches Yasha and Jester work to pull Beau out of the pit, the injured boy strapped to her back, and it’s like watching something out of a dream. Fuzzy at the edges, smeared in swirls of dark and light, a painting gone runny at the edges with heat.

“Caleb.”

He startles awake to near-darkness. There is only one dancing light, now, barely larger than his own fist, hovering in the air. His brain scrambles to keep up, counting the number of figures in the room: Molly bent over him with red and glowing eyes, Fjord and Beau behind. Nott crouched off to the side. Jester and Yasha and Shakäste and the kids have gone—he can still hear their voices, drifting faintly as they disappear up the tunnel.

“What…”

“Everything’s good now. Everyone’s safe,” Molly says encouragingly. “But it you could keep the lights up, that would be great—they took Nott’s flashlight with them.”

“Wh… oh. Sure.” Caleb holds out his hand and concentrates. A droplet of sweat beads on his brow and slides into his hair. _Phwomph. Phwomph._ Two more dancing lights puff into being, brighter than the first. He can see Frumpkin, now, huddled on his bent knee; his familiar seems just as worn out as Caleb is. “What’s going on, what’re we doing?”

“Beau found something,” Molly says, and gestures over his shoulder for her to elaborate.

“I’m not entirely sure, but it looked like a secret passage. There was a crack in the stone, and I could feel a draft underneath. And it was all tiled down there, mosaicked kind of, like an old well.” Beau’s eyes shine like stars in the glow of the dancing lights, crystalline blue and eager. “Want to go exploring?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Planetary (GO!) by My Chemical Romance
> 
> AND SPEAKING OF TRACKS. I think it's about time I started putting together this playlist. You can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/racheldburg/playlist/2sTffhTBBv8i6n99wqWLvN) on Spotify!


	12. the devil's dancing in your head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nott picks a lock. Fjord finds a cool rock. Caleb has Regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIKE i couldn't wait til friday, i'm too many chapters ahead and i want to share them with y'all!!! there's another companion sidefic that will be posted in the next few days, and then the next chapter will be up friday as advertised. thanks for all the lovely feedback, it makes me super happy!!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: accidental marijuana consumption

_2 years prior. Caleb._

Caleb was bent over a stack of undergrad papers, red pen hovering like a judge’s gavel, when his phone buzzed loudly on the desk. He capped the pen and glanced around the room. One of the kids looked up from their test and back down again, chewing their pencil. Caleb sighed and flicked his phone to silent before checking the notification.

**Molly: _[i require assistance]_**

**Caleb: _[what kind of assistance? I’m in the middle of class, rate urgency on a scale 0 to imminent death]_**

**Molly: _[somewhere around ‘there’s a cat in my lap and i don’t know how to get it off’]_**

Attached was a picture of the aforementioned lap, discernible by the star and moon-print leggings he was wearing. There was no cat in sight, but Fjord was sprawled across Molly’s thighs in gentle repose, mouth open and a lick of drool shining at the corner of his lips. Caleb bit back laughter.

**Caleb: _[how on earth did that happen??]_**

**Molly: _[you’re the cat expert, you tell me!]_**

**Caleb: _[that’s a non-answer. Give me something to work with here.]_**

He turned his attention back to the papers for a little while. He loved test days. It meant he didn’t have to stand in front of the class and click through his professor’s terrible powerpoint presentation, and could catch up on grading instead. TA’ing wasn’t his favorite job in the world, but sometimes it had its perks.

**Molly: _[fine. The truth is funnier, anyway. Fjord ate all my pot brownies.]_**

Caleb stared at the text for a moment, then choked on his own spit. He waved at the class to behave themselves and got up from the desk, taking his phone with him as he stepped out into the hall to have a quiet laughing fit in private.

**Caleb: _[I beg your pardon????]_**

**Molly: _[It’s not my fault! I made them for me, and then I got in the shower and when I got back out Fjord was home from work and he’d eaten half the batch. His smeller is apparently shot after a day at the docks]_**

Caleb gave up and pressed the call button, leaning his shoulder up against the wall opposite the classroom. He could still see inside through the little window in the door, enough to know whether anyone was blatantly cheating; it was enough to assuage the minor pang of guilt at taking a personal call on the clock.

“Oh good, you’re taking me seriously now,” Molly chirped on the other end in lieu of a greeting. “My hero.”

“I’m not sure why you think I’m going to be much help, Mollymauk. You’re the weed expert, here.”

“Yes, but _you’re_ the cat expert, and it’s my professional weed-consumer’s opinion that high Fjord is basically a cat. He _purrs_ , Caleb. Did you know that he purrs?!”

Caleb grinned to himself and picked idly at a loose thread coming off his jeans. “Yeah. Cute, isn’t it?”

“Cute, absolutely. It’s like having a giant person-sized vibe sitting in your lap,” Molly groused. “Yes, you idiot, I’m talking about you.”

Caleb strained to hear any sounds from Fjord’s end of things, but aside from some clothy rustling, nothing. “Is he awake?”

“Barely. He’s having a grand old time snuggling my tail, it’s very strange. I didn’t know he could get this tactile.” Molly sounded utterly baffled. Then he yelped, and Caleb could hear more rustling. “Fjord! Don’t put that in your mouth, my tail is not a chew-toy!”

Caleb bit down on the meat of his thumb to keep from laughing. “When did you get home?”

“Oh, a few hours ago. Yasha dropped me off and went on to the next thing. I’ll miss her, but I can’t say I’ll miss the cramped sleeping arrangements and the constant hiking. I like a good stroll as much as the next person, but she’s a _beast_. She eats _mountains_ for breakfast.” Molly’s aggrieved tone sparked another well of nostalgia in Caleb’s breast, and he wrapped his free arm over his chest, tucking his thumb into the crook of the opposite elbow.

“I miss you guys,” he said quietly into the phone. “Summer seems like a lifetime away.”

“We miss you too,” Molly replied readily. “But hey, it’s the last leg! When are you done with classes?”

“Three weeks. I’m finishing up my thesis proposal right now.”

“As we speak?” Molly teased.

“Nnnnot quite. Like I said, I’m _technically_ in class.”

“On the phone.”

“They’re taking a test, it’s fine.” He glanced through the window again. All was well. “Look, if Fjord is as off his head as he seems, just… shove him off and go do what you need to do. Chances are he won’t remember a smidgeon of this in the morning.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” Molly sighed. “You’re probably right, as usual. I suppose you’d better get back to work, and I’ll get back to… corralling this beast. Yes, darling, I’m talking to you. Don’t mumble at me, I can’t tell what you’re saying. Here, would you like to talk to papa?”

Caleb choked again, and a moment later he could hear the low, bassy grumblings of a sleepy Fjord. “Cay…?”

“Yes, hello darling,” Caleb murmured, giving himself a little leeway to be tender with him. If Fjord had really eaten half a batch—unlikely, given Molly’s propensity for hyperbole, but with Fjord’s legendary appetite anything was possible—there was little to no chance of him remembering this in the morning. “You be good for Mollymauk, now.”

“Mmng. Tired.”

“Yes, I bet you are. Let Molly up and go back to sleep, all right?”

There was a growly noise of assent, and Molly brought the phone back to his own ear with a delighted snicker. “I’m never letting him live this down. All right, I’ll let you go. Good luck with your thesis, love.”

“Good luck with… _him_ ,” Caleb replied before bidding him farewell and hanging up. He stared at the text message string a little more, stomach bubbling with a confusing mix of jealousy and fondness. As he looked, another image came through: Fjord on his belly on the couch, one arm hanging off and his eyes barely slitted open as he glared muzzily at the camera. Molly’s grinning face was just barely in the frame, slim purple fingers throwing up the peace sign at the bottom.

**Molly: _[do you think he’ll hate me forever if I send photos to the group chat]_**

**Caleb: _[i don’t think fjord is capable of hatred. And jester will love you forever, so that seems like a win/win]_**

**Molly: _[jester already loves me forever, but good point]_**

“Everyone loves you, Mollymauk,” Caleb sighed at himself before slipping his phone back into his pocket. Time to get back to work. (The promise of a long string of silly photos waiting for him at the end of class made it almost bearable.)

* * *

_Present day._

“I feel like we shouldn’t be doing this,” Caleb says, standing at the bottom of the pit. Like Beau had told them, the floor is a near-perfect circle traced with neat mosaic patterns, littered with rubble and dirt but still glowing with ancient color. He kicks aside some broken wood fragments, presumably from where the unlucky bastard had fallen through and broken his leg. “Without Jester, I mean. She would love this.”

“She’ll have to forgive us,” Beau says with a shrug. She’s knelt down at the side of the pit with Molly and Nott, their heads together as they investigate the supposed _secret passage_ Beau had found. “Are you sure there’s no hidden levers or buttons or anything over there?”

“Nope.” Caleb glances at the opposite wall. Nothing but choppy rock wall and the occasional patch of damp.

Fjord crosses his arms and looks unimpressed. “I really think we should go back up. They’re going to wonder where we went, and then we’ll just be starting this whole fiasco over again.”

“I sent Yasha a message,” Nott says. “Guys, come on, back _up_ , I can’t see shit.” She flaps her hands at Beau and Molly until they back away, grumbling. “Give me some space. Thank you.”

Caleb has seen her like this before—usually mid-prank, as long as said prank involves breaking and entering. Her tail swishes behind her as she crouches down, feeling along the seam with delicate fingers, head cocked to one side with her ear nearly touching stone. It brings back a surge of nostalgia so potent he can nearly taste it on his tongue.

_Caleb, hold still! I’ve almost got it!_

_You’re heavier than you look, it’s not my fault!_

_Well maybe you should lift more! Ask Fjord for some tips—ouch! Ha! I got it!_

“Hang on,” says the Nott in front of him, hardly changed at all from the Nott in his mind’s eye. “I think I’ve—”

There’s a subtle _click_ and a puff of dust. Nott flops back on her rear with a grunt and they watch as the seam Beau had found beings to widen, stone grinding on stone. A few moments later there's a little hole, little more than three foot by three, opening into darkness. Nott flaps a hand and Caleb sends one of his precious dancing lights through.

Steps. Leading down. The five of them look at one another with wide eyes.

“Who’s going first?” Molly says.

“It’s gonna be me, isn’t it,” Nott sighs, already resigned.

“I mean, you _are_ the smallest—no offense,” Beau says quickly. “But I can go first if you want.”

Caleb rubs his arms nervously. It’s chilly down here, and he’s still not sure if he likes the idea of pressing deeper into… whatever this is. Ruins? It can’t be part of the mining complex, it’s so far from everything they’ve already passed through.

“What do you think, Caleb?” Fjord asks, bumping shoulders with him. “Stay or go?”

“We… have come this far,” Caleb hears himself say, as though at a distance. He still feels so tired. But it’s better than the frantic, clawing fear that’s been scratching at his heels ever since they climbed down the ladder in the first place, and Nott and Beau and Molly seem genuinely excited about exploring. So would he, if we were feeling less lethargic. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go a little further down.”

“I’m always a fan of going down,” Beau says with a wicked grin, and yelps when Molly punches her arm. “Yowch! Molly, what the fuck!”

“I actually do feel a little bad, that was a good one,” Molly says contritely, shaking out his hand.

Nott rolls her eyes. “Right. Well, see you losers later on the other side.” She flips them all the bird and ducks into the passageway. “Hey!” her voice echoes back to them, “it’s bigger on the inside!”

“Well that’s good,” Fjord mutters. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m fitting down there otherwise.”

Molly pats his meaty shoulder. “You’ll do just fine, big guy,” he says, and follows after Nott. Fjord coughs into his fist and beckons Caleb to go next.

He has to get on his hands and knees to crawl through, but once he’s on the other side the ceiling arches up and he can stand on the step without having to hunch too much. The stairs go down a little ways and then make a sharp curve; Molly is on the cusp of it, looking down, and Nott has already disappeared, even though Caleb’s lights haven’t made their way through yet. That’s when he realizes the passage is illuminated—not by any source he can see, but a faint bluish glow bathes everything in a cool light, casting no shadows. It ripples along the stone walls like sunlight through deep water. Caleb’s nape tingles uncomfortably.

“Well that’s handy,” Molly says, voice echoing up the stairwell. “More lights ahead.”

“How polite,” Caleb says dryly. He steps aside to let Beau wriggle past, panting and cursing and covered in dust. “What I would very much like to know is who lit it for us.”

“Magic?” Molly lifts his nose to the air and sniffs. “I can smell it.”

“And how do you know what magic smells like?” Beau scoffs.

Molly shrugs. “It smells like Caleb.”

“Like… but I don’t…” Caleb doesn’t know what to say. It’s the last thing he expected to hear, and he’s suddenly swarmed with questions that he doesn’t know how to ask. “I barely use it, though.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Molly eyes him sideways, almost apologetically, like he’s trying to gauge Caleb’s reaction to this revelation. “It’s still there, whether you use it or not. Frumpkin smells like it, too. Kind of like…” He wiggles his fingers. “Electricity. Spicy. I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’re just smelling his dancing lights,” Beau suggests after a beat, when it becomes apparent that Caleb isn’t going to say anything. Is _incapable_ of saying anything.

“No… I don’t think so.” Molly doesn’t elaborate, only drifts a little further down the stairs. Beau gives Caleb a shrug and follows.

Behind him is the sound of scraping stone and swearing. Caleb latches onto that, belly warm with weak relief, and turns to help Fjord through the narrow gap. His shoulders and chest are almost too broad to fit, but he manages, and then the rest of him follows, spilling out long-legged like a colt tumbling through warm grass.

The stairs are harder, though, and unforgiving—Fjord swears under his breath and stands stiffly, stooped a little to avoid scraping his head on the low, curved ceiling. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They are going on ahead. Listen, Fjord—” Caleb reaches out, puts a hand to Fjord’s arm as his friend tries to move past him. “Wait. Please.”

Fjord waits. Still stooped, one step above with the rippling blue-lit wall at his back, he seems to loom over Caleb like a slow-moving wave arcing toward the shore. His fists clench and release at his sides, eyes darting nervously—a rat in a trap. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“There is something going on with you,” Caleb says bluntly. “Upstairs, you thought you saw water—you grabbed me and tried to keep me away from it. What’s this about, Fjord? Is this something like… like with the lake, before?”

Fjord huffs out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know, okay? There’s somethin’ really creepy about this place, and I don’t like it. That’s all.”

“You could have stayed behind,” Caleb says, still watching him closely. Sweat sheens on Fjord’s upper lip and in the hollow of his throat, reflected in the blue. “We wouldn’t have begrudged you. Hell, I might have stayed behind, too. I like this whole thing about as much as you do.”

Fjord presses his lips together, pinched and turning white at the edges. “I wasn’t gonna leave you,” he says at last, mumbling and indistinct. “I wasn’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“Okay.” Caleb sighs and relents, letting him go. “But you’ll tell me if you feel anything… strange. Ja?”

“I will. I promise,” Fjord says when Caleb stares at him meaningfully. “C’mon, we’re falling behind.”

Around the corner is another corner, and then another. The spiral staircase descends a good ways, although not as far as the ladder they took to get down into the mines in the first place. Molly and Nott have taken the lead, and their hush voices drift back in strange, distorted murmurations, caught by the curving walls and muffled beneath Beau’s scraping footsteps.

Then, suddenly, they reach the bottom. Caleb nearly walks right into Beau’s back, but catches himself at the last minute. She reaches out without looking and takes hold of his shoulder. “Caleb,” she says, very evenly, what the _fuck_ is this?”

Nott has already ventured into the room before them, and Caleb pushes past the others to follow her—but once he’s there, suspended in the long-deserted chamber, an old tickle of curiosity is stoked to life like long-dead kindling. It’s obviously an old, old room, thick with dust and mildew, but at one time it must have been a very busy, bustling workroom of some kind. There are long, sturdy wooden tables that look only a little waterlogged by the sheer dampness in the air, their tops scarred from use—though old, they’re not unlike the worktables in the labs Caleb oversaw in college—and in the back, just at the fading reach of Caleb’s dancing lights, are bookshelves towering nearly to the ceiling, packed with tomes.

Caleb is drifting across the floor before he even realizes, passing Nott as she pokes at something on the table with a single claw. He makes it almost halfway across the room before a hand on his elbow jerks him to a stop.

“Caleb!” Fjord bites out. “Look.”

He points, and Caleb feels cold sweat pop out along his brow and down his spine. Just a hairsbreadth away from the toe of his boot, half-hidden beneath layers of dirt and mold, a symbol has been carved into the flagstone floor: a perfect circle inscribed with runes and sigils.

“What is it?” Beau whispers from somewhere behind them. “Did you find a skeleton or something?”

“No need to sound so excited about the prospect,” Molly snips.

“Both of you shut up,” Fjord growls. “Give him a minute. Caleb, do you recognize those symbols?”

“It’s a teleportation circle,” Caleb hears himself say. He sounds fantastically calm in his own ears, as if he weren’t sweating profusely in spite of the room’s pervasive chill.

“Teleportation? I didn’t know that was a real thing,” Nott says, keeping her distance.

Beau huffs. “Oh, it’s a thing, for like, _super_ rich people and corporations and stuff. They have to be Empire-approved and licensed and everything.”

“I don’t think this one is _Empire-approved_ ,” Caleb says, scooting back a bit. He gets down on his haunches to inspect it more closely, taking a smidgeon of courage from Fjord’s sturdy heat at his side. “And I don’t think it’s in operation anymore, thank goodness.” He gestures to the deep crack that splits the circle nearly into two equal halves. “Something destroyed it a while ago. From this side.”

“Can you tell where it may have led?” Molly’s voice comes from Caleb’s left, and he turns to see the tiefling pacing around the outer edge of the circle, giving it a wide berth.

“I’m not familiar with these runes,” Caleb says apologetically. “It’s nowhere I know of, but honestly it could go anywhere in the world.” He straightens up on creaking knees. “But at the very least it’s definitely no longer active,” he says, and steps forward.

“Cay—” Fjord begins to shout, but the second syllable is swallowed up by nothingness as Caleb is thrown forward across the room. He arcs in the air for a split second that seems to last forever, arms pinwheeling—it would almost be comical, except that a moment and a lifetime later he hits the ground, hard, and rolls a few feet before coming to a stop at the wall with the bookshelves.

He gapes emptily for breath, chest convulsing, cheek pressed hard to the gritty floor. He can’t hear anything, or see anything—he can only _feel_ , feel the cold, unforgiving stone beneath him, feel the aching numbness of a dissipating shockwave roll down his spine and along his arms and legs. Then, all at once, footsteps thunder in his ears and there are hands on him, turning him over, patting his face and feeling for a pulse. He gasps, croaks, coughs weakly like a newborn kitten.

“I’m fine,” he rasps, blinking away spots. His clothes smell slightly singed and he has a new collection of scrapes, but apart from that…

He opens his eyes properly and recoils with a shriek at the visage in front of him. A ghastly face stares back at him, grinning with all its leftover teeth, eyes like two red coals and black smoke pouring from its nostrils and the corners of its desiccated lips.

“Easy, easy,” Fjord’s voice rumbles from somewhere nearby. “You’re all right, just breathe a minute.”

The vision wavers and collapses in on itself, and Caleb is left staring not at some wicked spirit or demon, but Mollymauk, who is crouched at his feet, wide-eyed with concern. Caleb draws a shaking breath.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Fucking hell, what _was_ that?”

“What was…?” Molly turns to look over his shoulder, but there is nothing there.

“What was what?” Nott shrieks, barreling into Caleb’s line of vision. “What was _that?_ That was _you_ , Caleb Widogast, being a terrific dumbass! An absolute numbskull! What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

“I don’t know! I’m sorry! I thought—I thought it was deactivated! I _know_ it is, it has to be—”

“It was trapped,” Beau says grimly. She kneels down, too, and pulls Nott back with a hand to her shoulder. “Give him some space, Nott.”

“You should have checked,” Nott glowers. “You should have given _me_ a chance to check, I fucking know how to—” She cuts herself off and springs to her feet. “Everyone stay _exactly_ where you are, okay? I’m gonna fuckin’ tear this place apart from top to bottom before we do any more exploring.”

Caleb rights himself but stays sitting on the ground, too shaken to test the strength of his legs. Fjord stays where he is, kneeling at his side; Beau crouches nearby and watches Nott like a hawk as the goblin picks her way delicately across the room, back and forth, inspecting everything first with her eyes, then her hands—tracing patterns on the walls with her fingernails and hissing with victory whenever she uncovers another trap. There’s a worrying amount of them, all tucked cleverly into places Caleb wouldn’t have thought to check. Under tables and chairs, in the cracks between mortar and stone, and a few tucked into the bookshelves themselves, nasty little surprises just waiting for years and years to be uncovered.

Molly keeps his distance. His thin shoulders curve in on themselves and his tail droops low to the ground as he stands apart from them, watching Nott with a keenness of his own. Caleb feels strangely like he should apologize. But for what? For being an idiot? He already apologized for that, whatever good it did.

Nearly a quarter of an hour later, Nott returns, grim but satisfied. “There. Should be good now, as far as I can tell. But if you get yourselves blown up, don’t come crying to me.”

“Find any hidden compartments or anything?” Beau asks, tailing Nott to the nearest worktable.

“A few.” Nott boosts herself up on it and folds her arms tightly over her chest. “Nothing was in any of them, though. Looks like this place got pretty cleared out a looong time ago.”

Caleb, turning his attention to the bookshelves, is inclined to agree. There’s plenty of tomes left behind, but all of them are so ruined by mildew and rot that they’re little more than useless papier-mâché. He does his due diligence anyway, burying the occasional sneeze into the crook of his elbow as Fjord drifts behind him, a quiet, watchful shadow.

“This place is a bust,” Beau says after a little while, scuffing her feet on the ground. She leans back against the worktable and gives Caleb a _look_ when he turns to her. “C’mon, what do you say we go back up?”

“Not as much adventure as you thought?” Caleb asks lightly. He’s come down from the adrenaline high of being flung through the air, and the crash is making him twitchy. “Just another minute. There’s got to be something here to make this worth it.”

As if by magic, his hand descends on a book that feels nothing like the others. The cover is stiff, treated leather, and instead of giving like sponge beneath his hands, it feels structurally sound. He wraps his hand around the spine gingerly and pulls it off the shelf.

 _Chnk._ Something clicks inside the wall and Caleb trips back a few steps, heart pounding. Slowly, with the grit of years dragging it back, the shelf begins to swing open.

“Holy shit,” Beau yelps, springing off the table. “You found something!”

Caleb stares at the book in his hand. It’s written in a language he doesn’t know, or even recognize—an impressive feat, considering he’s studied a plethora of languages and knows the roots of many more. The leather binding is obviously hand-tooled with delicate scrollwork, and though any gilding has long worn away, the finer details remain: twisting ferns and trees encapsulating a series of strewn-out bones, like a garden grown up around the fringes of a cemetary.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Beau’s voice says, and Caleb looks up to see Nott peering through the gap in the open bookshelf. It’s a little taller than the entrance to the tunnel upstairs, but not by much, and beyond is more of that eerie blue light.

“But there’s treasure inside,” Nott whines. “I can see it from here!”

“Treasure?” Molly says, the first word he’s spoken in a while. He peeks over Nott’s shoulder. “Yeah, that looks sketchy as all hell. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Okay, _grandpa_ ,” Nott sneers. “I thought you liked shiny things.” She brushes his hand away and pokes her head a little further into the next chamber. “Caleb! Get over here, I need you to tell me if any of this stuff is magic.”

Caleb reluctantly sets the book down and goes to look. It’s hardly a chamber at all, more like a secret compartment about the size of a safe. Except the back wall has crumbled away, exposed to the wear and tear of a small subterranean stream that passes through cracks in the bedrock and out of sight. There might even be enough room to stand mostly upright, if they could squeeze themselves past the bookshelf. And beneath the water is the promised treasure: lots of old gold coins that seem unbothered by the constant corrosion of the water, and other, pretty things. Trinkets and glittering jewelry that refracts the strange, sourceless light against the walls in spools of rainbow color.

It’s all enough to make his nose itch. He rubs his nose furiously, trying not to sneeze. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s _probably_ magic. And it has to be trapped, right? What kind of idiot traps his whole house but not the place where keeps his valuables?”

“I dunno, the name dumbass that walks right into a creepy teleportation circle without examining it first?” Nott suggests. “Can’t you do some more wizard shit? I thought you always knew when something was magic.”

“I mean… I _can_ do some ‘wizard shit’,” Caleb admits slowly, “but it will take some time. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“You mean you can’t just… I don’t know… twiddle your thumbs and make it go?” Nott’s voice has gone all eager and soft at the edges with nostalgia, and she doesn’t seem to feel the slowly creeping dread suffusing Caleb’s bones. There’s something _wrong_ with that underground stream, something decayed beneath the sharp smell of sulfur and wet rock, but he can’t put his finger on what it might be. “You use to do all sorts of cool shit at summer camp without anything to—hey! Fjord, watch it, I’m standing here!”

Fjord does not seem to hear her. Caleb finds himself shuffled off to one side by Fjord’s passage as the half-orc kneels down and climbs _through_ the hole into the chamber beyond. The water comes up nearly to his knees, far deeper than Caleb had first thought, and his head only just barely brushes the cavern ceiling when he stands up straight.

“Uh… Fjord?” Beau says. “What the fuck, man? You can’t even wait for Caleb to make sure nothing nasty’s gonna blow up in your face?”

Fjord gives no response, doesn’t even seem to register that Beau spoke at all. The lurking disquiet suddenly bubbles up in Caleb’s stomach, threatening to claw its way out his throat, and he lurches forward awkwardly into the narrow space, one hand flailing out to catch the hem of Fjord’s shirt.

“Fjord, wait—fucking hell, just _wait a second_ —”

In complete silence, Fjord tears himself free from Caleb’s flimsy grasp and bends down, plunging both hands into the water. He reaches down, down, until he’s submerged nearly to his elbows—the water is _much_ deeper than Caleb realized, even now, shoving his way forward into the little cavern. The glow is almost blindingly bright here—he lifts a hand to shield his eyes and swallows back a muffled gasp as Fjord rights himself again, something clasped between his hands.

At first it looks like a stone of some kind, but as Fjord turns a little towards him, eyes zeroed in on his prize, Caleb can see that it’s an enormous, semi-translucent sphere. Deep amber in color, and smooth, apart from a deep crack in its face that has scarcely begun to be worn away by the water. It looks slippery, but Fjord keeps a hold of it, just staring. Eyes focused and flint-sharp.

“Fjord,” Caleb says weakly, though he has no hope of a response. “Fjord, please. Look at me.”

There is no response. He can feel the others nudging into the space behind him as best they can, and he stumbles into the water, nearly shouting at the icy clasp around his calves. It’s fucking _cold_ , cold as winter ice, and it seems immediately into his sneakers and socks until he can’t feel his toes anymore.

Suddenly, like he’s been pinched with a live wire, Fjord’s entire body jerks. His hands tighten around the orb and press it hard against his belly, right up where his sternum ends and his diaphragm begins. And then, the impossible. Caleb watches, not daring to blink, as Fjord pushes the orb _into_ his body, past cloth and skin and bone, until it disappears.

The light goes out very suddenly, leaving them in watery half-light—his dancing lights are still behind them in the main chamber. Frantic, fumbling, he drags one through the narrow, crumbling cubby and into the hidden chamber.

Fjord blinks at him, squinting in the glare. “What—happened?” he mutters. “Why’re you all starin’ at me like…”

Caleb ignores him and staggers forward, hands to Fjord’s chest. His shirt is damp, but whole and smooth. He pats Fjord’s chest and stomach frantically, feeling for any evidence of what just happened, but there is nothing. No broken skin, no hard protrusion to betray the orb’s presence inside him.

“Caleb, what—”

There is a sudden _shift_. The ground beneath Caleb’s feet gives a quiver, not quite a quake, and the vibrations travel up his legs and into his body, humming. They reverberate inside his skull, building a whine behind his teeth, and he locks his jaw to keep it back.

“Fucking _shit_ ,” he hears Beau say, over the growing hum. “What the fuck is happening to the circle?”

Caleb looks to Fjord, but his friend looks just as confused as Caleb feels. “No time,” Caleb says, nonsensically, and he turns his back on Fjord to burrow back into the main room.

Nott and Beau and Molly are already there, staring at the circle on the ground. At the _glowing_ circle on the ground. Whatever they may have seen or not seen of Fjord’s… _absurdity_ has been wiped away by this new terror: a whipping wind has been conjured in the circle somehow, deep blue and glimmering. Bright bioluminescent light fills the sigils in the floor, painting everything the same ethereal blue-white. The vibrations beneath the floor are very nearly a dull roar. Caleb lifts his hand to his eyes and calls for Beauregard.

“We have to leave! Now!”

“What _is_ that thing?” she shouts back over the din. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter! Something is coming through, something bad, and we can’t stay here!”

Even as he speaks, a glimmer of deep gold sparks in the center of the circle, where the crack is. The wind begins to die, and with it the pale blue glow—sifts of water drape in sheets around the sigil’s circumference, filling the carved runes and pooling in the rift.

Against every instinct, Caleb is spellbound. He takes a step forward. Another. The crack wells and bubbles up with water until it runs over the edges of the circle, spreading in thin, lapping wavelets across the floor. He nudges past Beau and Molly, who are similarly paralyzed—Nott is nowhere to be seen, but he barely registers her absence. He walks forward, and forward, until he’s standing at the very cusp of the teleportation circle’s outermost barrier. Water surges over his feet and beyond, but it’s not cold like the stream—it’s warm, almost, compared to the chill of the air. He looks down.

Beneath the crack in the stone, something moves. A surge of black, speckled with crustaceans and ocean slick. And as it moves, parting from the center, it reveals itself: an enormous yellow eye almost bigger than the crack can accommodate, the pupil no more than a crescent. Staring back up at him. Unblinking.

A voice rings in his head. Deep, so deep he can barely fathom it, so deep it rattles the weft of muscle and sinew, so deep he fears it will crack his bones apart.

_W A T C H I N G_

“Watching,” comes an echoed whisper. A voice familiar, and yet not. “Watching… me?”

Caleb whips around, finally tearing himself away, to see Fjord standing beside him. Also staring into the rift. His face is blank again, unmoving—when Caleb reaches out and touches his arm, he doesn’t even flinch.

_W A T C H I N G_

More water bubbles from the center and rushes around Caleb’s ankles, sucking at the soles of his shoes as it returns to its source. He digs his fingers into Fjord’s bicep, shaking him, shouting—but there is no response. He whirls to the others. Beau’s face looks pale and strange in the underlight, eyes lit to two ice-blue flames; her lips are parted and she seems to droop, every muscle lax and unresponsive. Molly, beside her, is very nearly the same. But not quite.

“Mollymauk!” Caleb screams, over the hiss and sigh of the ocean. And it _is_ the ocean. He can smell it, the brine and brack of the tepid water as it swirls around his feet. Still shallow, but undeniably tidal. “Mollymauk, help me!”

Molly’s red eyes sharpen, and he looks back at him, mouth ajar and hand shaking at his sides. “I don’t—I can’t—” His voice is barely audible, swallowed by the water. His tail whips back and forth behind him, but his legs are refusing to cooperate.

“Frumpkin,” Caleb whispers, turning to the folds of his scarf over his shoulder. “Go to Jester. Find her, bring her here. Please—”

In a blur of feathers, Frumpkin whisks away, darting through the chamber. Caleb turns his head to follow him—he swoops, avoiding the teleportation circle, and makes for the door at the other end. But as he flits past, a mist seems to rise suddenly, a thick swathe of water droplets that lash out like a whip.

Caleb _leaps_ forward in his own head, into Frumpkin, but the trick doesn’t last very long. He catches a whiff of something pungent and salty and staggers, clutching Fjord’s arm to stay upright as he’s thrown forcibly out of Frumpkin’s eyes. And then. Past the circle, past the glowing eye that seems to regard him with detached disinterest, Caleb watches Frumpkin tumble to the floor in a feathery heap.

_Frump—!_

“Caleb!” Molly shouts, but Caleb is already halfway across the circle. His toe catches on something beneath the water and he goes down, skidding hard against the rough cavern floor. Salt stings his eyes and the palms of his hands, but he shakes it off and stumbles forward until he can scoop Frumpkin’s tiny feathered body into his palms—too little, too late. As he watches, Frumpkin turns crystalline at the edges and is gone.

“ _No!”_

Something in the room shivers and quakes. The spell is temporarily broken, and Molly tears free of whatever was gluing him in place to bound across the laboratory toward him. “Caleb, are you all right?” The tiefling grabs him roughly by the shoulder, like he’s trying to shake him out of a trance, but Caleb isn’t paralyzed with fear—he’s _enraged._

“My cat,” he says tonelessly, staring into the empty bowl of his palms. “He’s gone.”

“What?”

“Frumpkin is _gone._ ” He sends his mind out frantically, seeking, but the little pocket dimension where Frumpkin normally resides is empty. He’s dimly aware of Mollymauk trying to yell at Fjord through the strange, shimmering glow of the teleportation circle, but all he can focus on is the screaming, scouring _emptiness_ where Frumpkin should be. Caleb staggers away from the scene and tries to fight off the heat boiling under his skin.

“Hey you guys!” someone shouts, unseen. It’s Jester’s voice, echoing down the stairwell. Feet slam in a rapid pitter-patter down the steps and then she bursts into the room, wild-eyed, Nott and Yasha just behind. “What’s going on?”

“I went and got them,” Nott gasps raggedly. She’s clutching something in her hand—a tiny piece of copper. “I called for them when Fjord went all weird and I—”

“Nevermind that now,” Molly says, ploughing over the _well done_ sitting primed at the tip of Caleb’s tongue. “Yasha, please, you have to do _something_.”

Caleb clenches his empty fists and turns. Fjord is alone in the middle of the room, now—Beau has also shaken off the compulsion and is making her way around the outside of the room, hugging the walls. Water is still pouring from the crack in the floor. The eye still glares out, pulsating, demanding. But something has changed. The light is growing dim; the deep, thrumming vibrations are beginning to fade. Fjord’s eyes, glowing gold even at this distance, fall shut, and he holds out his hand.

 _Fwshhh_. In his hand, a sword appears. Curved and wickedly sharp, reflecting what little light remains, and dripping gouts of seawater back onto the ground as if it were the wellspring itself.

And then the light goes out, and they are all left in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Loud Magic by Foreign Air
> 
> EDIT: I can't believe I almost forgot, but huge thanks again to losebetter, he's been SUCH a help to me while I fight with the "plottier" parts of this. The idea to blend the lab and the cloven crystal with the mines was his, and I love it. this story would be nothing without him cheering me on, so thanks buddy!!!


	13. i hope you know you got the ocean blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb starts a fire. Kiri gets a bath. Fjord makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY for the delay, traveling got away from me. But I'm back home and ready to wrangle this beast again. 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: self-harm in the initial flashback sequence (as it pertains to Fjord's canonical childhood). Also some brief marijuana consumption.

_10 years prior. Jester._

“Hey! This is the girls’ restroom, you know! Oh, hi Fjord.” Jester hovered in the doorway, watching the boy’s hunched shoulders quiver. “I didn’t realize it was you. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

She waited approximately three point five seconds before coming in anyway, letting the heavy door sag shut behind her with a tired wheeze. The halogen bulb flickered and sizzled overhead as some poor, doomed moth beat itself senselessly against the glass. Fjord stayed where he was: leaning against one of the blocky porcelain sinks, head bowed and face in his hands.

“Fjord?” Jester asked, more gently this time. She put a tentative hand on his lower back and found it damp with sweat.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled at last. His words were oddly slurred and swollen, pressed through the gaps in his fingers like a secret. “The boys’ side doesn’t have good mirrors, ’n I thought it was late enough that no one… that no—”

Jester covered her mouth with her hand to try and stifle her gasp, but it was too late. It came out anyway, sharp and unforgiving in the silence, and Fjord shrank away even further. “Oh Fjord, what happened? Let me see, let me see.”

She took his hands in hers, which he permitted with only a little resistance. In the glare of the overhead light she could see him properly now, tears streaking his face and his mouth all swollen and bloody. There was blood in the sink, too, and a long metal rasp. Jester reached out and gently wiped away a fresh-pooling tear with the pad of her thumb.

“Fjord,” she whispered. “Did you do this?”

Fjord squeezed his eyes shut, and he nodded as fresh tears fell hot against her knuckles.

“Oh, no. Oh sweetheart.” Jester had forgotten why she even came here in the first place. Some vague notion of a prank, poorly thought out, dissipated from her mind like soap bubbles down the drain as she cupped Fjord’s face in her hands. “Can you tell me why?”

Fjord sniffled a bit and exhaled through his mouth, a quivering hot breath that smelled of metal. “B-because I hate them. They’re big, and they make it hard to—to talk. And people l-laugh at me.”

Jester saw red. It took all of her willpower not to accidentally press on Fjord’s tender jaw. Hands shaking, she whispered, “Who? Who laughed at you? I’ll fucking cut their hands off and feed them their own fingers.”

Fjord choked on tears and laughter. Bloody spit flecked his chin and Jester began pulling paper towels out of the dispenser with vicious precision, wetting them down with water. “Just. Everyone,” he mumbled. “‘M the only half-orc at camp. I’m _weird_.”

“You are perfect and wonderful,” Jester insisted, “ _just_ the way you are, Fjord, okay?”

Fjord just shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, as if it could stem the tide. Hiccups still shuddered in his chest, and when Jester pulled him to her, he laid his head willingly against her shoulder. “‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “My mouth—”

“It’s okay.” Jester trembled with fury and petted the back of his head as tenderly as she could. Wet tears seeped through her shirt in a warm and gentle tide as her blood pounded loudly in her ears. She was so angry she was _sweating_. She was going to have a long talk with Yasha tomorrow, and then she was going to crack some skulls. But right now… “It’s gonna be okay, Fjord. I promise. Do you want to get cleaned up and come have a cuddle?”

He sniffled wetly. “I mean, I’m—I’m not—”

“It’s just me and Beau in the cabin right now, and she’s not gonna say anything. Or—” She peered at him and smiled, stroking another smear of saltwater from his cheek. “I don’t mean it like _that_ , Fjord. I know I had a _super_ embarrassing crush on you for like _two seconds_ when we were kids, but not anymore. I know you’re not…” she lowered her voice a little, just in case, “into girls.”

Fjord’s eyes flew open, wide and yellow and afraid. “How…?”

“I’m _super smart_ , okay? That’s all. No one told me.” She patted his cheek very gently and brandished the damp paper towels. “Let’s clean you up and go somewhere dark and quiet and nice. Okay? We even have a mini-fridge because Beau is a counselor, so we can put some ice on your mouth.”

Fjord wiped his eyes and accepted the paper towel offering. “Okay. But you won’t—you won’t tell anyone, will you? That I’m… gay.”

“Not at all, not unless you want me to,” Jester said, as serious as death.

“Especially not…” He swallowed and pressed the damp towel to his eyes, flushed a deeper green than usual. “Not Caleb?”

Jester bit her lower lip, trying not to smile _._ “ _Especially_ not Caleb. Swear on my life.”

“Okay.” Fjord heaved an enormous sigh and sagged, broad shoulders slumping in towards his center like a star trying desperately to be consumed by the vacuum of space. It hurt Jester’s heart to see. It hurt worse, knowing there was so little she could do, but she swallowed it back and reached for Fjord’s hand. He gave it willingly. “Let’s go.”

Jester pretended not to notice him pocketing the rasp as they left the bathroom.

* * *

_Present day._

Caleb half-expects to climb out of the mines and find himself in darkness, swaddled by night. But the sun is still in the sky, albeit sinking toward the horizon, when he finally hauls himself up out of the manhole and onto warm grass. He was also expecting—afraid, maybe—of a welcoming party, but there are only two people waiting for them. Two people, and a bird still bundled in flannel, blinking beady black eyes at him as he stands aside to let the others come up behind.

“Hallo,” he says, smiling weakly. “Sorry we took a bit longer than we expected.”

Bryce gives him a _look,_ like they know some mischief has been afoot, but they don’t press the matter, only waiting until everyone has climbed out. Fjord is last, wet and bedraggled—but so are they all, and in the fading light of evening, some details can be smudged or set aside, forgotten.

“Everyone is alright?” Shakäste asks, leaning on his cane. He doesn’t look as though he needs the support; instead it’s merely habit, a bit of flair that adds another layer of [gentlemanliness] to his mein.

“We are all fine, ja. And the children?”

“They’re on their way to the ER to get checked over. They’ll all need a round of IV fluids at least, and poor Michael’s leg…” Bryce shakes their head and smiles. “But nevermind that. They’re safe, which is the important thing. Thanks to _you_.”

“If it’s not too rude say,” Beau starts, and then she cuts herself off. “What the hell am I saying, you know who we fuckin’ are. I’m sure you can tell just by looking at us, but we’re beat. Any chance we can get a lift back to camp instead of having to hoof it?”

“Oh _please_ , Watchmaster,” Jester puts in, with a little eyelash action for emphasis.

Bryce huffs a quiet laugh. “No need for theatrics, Miss Lavore, that’s what I’m here for.” They gesture behind the group to where an offroad squad car sits, listing slightly on the uneven turf. “It may be a tight squeeze, but we can get the lot of you back to your campsite without extra trips. Reverend, if you don’t mind…?”

“After you,” Shakäste says smoothly, and follows the Watchmaster to their car.

Caleb takes a few steps to follow and then glances back over his shoulder. The others blink back at him in various states of exhaustion. “Um… if anyone would like… to call shotgun?”

Jester chortles and skips up to him, light of step in spite of her earlier plea to the Watchmaster. She slips her arm through his and leans up to kiss his cheek. “Come on, let’s go together. You did a good job leading us, I think _you_ deserve the front seat.”

“Well, I—I did not, I mean, I didn’t do very much—”

“Sure you did,” she insists, sidestepping a woodchuck hole in the ground. She leans in a little closer and drops her voice to a whisper. “Also you saved Fjord, so you deserve extra good things for that.”

“I did not—” Caleb begins. But they are at the car, now, with Bryce in front and Shakäste beside him, waiting patiently with the windows down. So he zips his lips up tight and climbs into the middle row, silently grateful for Jester’s soft warmth pressed against his side.

“Are we really bringing the goddamn bird?” Molly complains from the other side of the vehicle. Jester _zooms_ across the seat and sticks her head out the window.

“Yes we definitely are, definitely! He can sit on my lap!”

“You don’t know it’s a _he_ ,” Yasha puts in, completely deadpan as she hands over the bundle.

Less comfortable now, Caleb leans against the door as Jester settles the oversized blackbird on her lap. Close up it’s about the size of a human baby, nearly two feet long, with a beak that’s even longer than its skull. It blinks at him with its milky-blue inner eyelids.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he says to it, as everyone else slowly makes their way into the vehicle.

The birds cocks its head at him. “ _Hallo_.”

“Holy shit,” Jester gasps, even as Caleb’s mouth drops open in shock. “It can talk!”

“Can talk!” echoes the bird, in a scarily accurate mimic of Jester’s lilting Nicodranas accent.

“Oh!” Bryce laughs over their shoulder, hands already on the wheel as they wait for everyone to settle. “Have you never met a kenku before?”

“A what-who?”

“A kenku. Type of bird, quite large, as you can see. You don’t usually see them this far south, it’s a bit surprising. Cold-weather fowl, mostly.” They jerk their chin in the kenku’s direction. “They’re pretty good mimics, but there haven’t been a lot of studies done to see how smart they really are. That one looks young, probably adolescent—you’ll want to take him to the nature center, they can identify it and tag it there before releasing it back into the wild.”

“Are you people?” Jester coos to it, ruffling the feathers behind its head. “Are you a boy bird or a girl bird?”

After some throat-clicking and consideration, the bird echoes, “Girl bird?”

Jester gasps. “It answered! It knows!”

“It’s just echoing you, Jess,” Beau says tiredly, dropping her head onto her girlfriend’s shoulder.

Caleb turns his head to the window, tuning them out as they bicker contentedly over the ribald pitch and yaw of the vehicle. He presses a hand to the center of his chest. He can still feel the ache of Frumpkin’s loss. He’s almost positive that he can bring him back—he’s fey, after all, even if he looks like an ordinary house cat most of the time—but still. It will take time, and components he’s not sure he has. He’ll have to go into town and—

A hand brushes his shoulder tentatively, almost shyly, and he turns in his seat to find Fjord looking at him. His head is pressed to the window, too, like it weighs too much to keep it upright. He makes to withdraw, and Caleb reaches up and grabs hold of his fingers. Clinging.

“Are you all right?” Fjord asks in a low voice. Caleb huffs in disbelief.

“Am _I_? I should be asking _you_ that.”

Fjord just shrugs one shoulder, eyes downcast. He looks impossibly tired, the few shallow lines in his face deepened by what transpired in the mines. Whether he has any firm memory of it is harder to define. “I’m okay, I think,” he says at long last. He glances to one side, and Caleb can see, reflected in the glass, that Mollymauk is trying very hard not to seem like he’s listening in. It’s a bit unavoidable, given the cramped space, but Caleb appreciates the effort. “I’m sorry about Frump.”

Caleb sighs and relaxes his grip, expecting Fjord to pull away. He does not. “It’s all right. I can get him back, I… I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s good.” Fjord’s voice is painfully earnest, even if he can’t bring himself to meet Caleb’s eyes.

The rest of the ride transpires largely in silence. Caleb tries, and fails, not to replay the last hour or so in his mind, but it runs through his head like a highlight reel, just as visceral in memory as it was to live it. He can still taste salt under his tongue, still see the furious yellow glow of that enormous eye peering up at them like the visage of some horrible, ancient titan pressing at the shell of the earth from below. And Fjord, spellbound, a saltwater vessel made flesh as he stood on the brink of the crevice and answered the eldritch summons. Then a sharp, screaming force: so strong that Caleb can still taste the metallic ache behind his teeth. He still can't parse the source, too scrambled in the head of make sense of it, but whatever it was it had wrenched the portal shut and sent Fjord to his knees. And left them in the dark. He curls his hand against his thigh, but the tingle of his dancing lights is still far from his reach.

Nott crawls over Jester’s lap at some point, wrenching him from his thoughts, and sits on the floor at his feet. Her hands are picking restlessly at the skin around her fingernails. She must be out of liquor. Caleb releases Fjord with reluctance and dedicates his hands to weaving tiny braids through her hair instead. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep them both occupied and they can pile out in a breathless, relief-stricken heap at their campsite.

The Stormchaser is right where they left her, awning atremble in the evening breeze. Yasha makes a beeline for her while the rest of them hang back, uncertain of the proceedings.

There is some kind of social interaction with Bryce and Shakäste, but Caleb escapes, letting Jester and Molly handle it. Not the best dynamic duo to talk to the cops, but he’s out of fucks to give. Instead he roots around in his suitcase for a change of clothes, and strips behind the Stormchaser. His skin is clammy but not in demand of a towel, so he tugs his pajamas on right over bare skin, shivering in the cool air.

When he returns, Bryce and Shakäste are gone. Jester is dragging Beau down the road to give the baby kenku a wash at the bathhouse—he can hear their laughter as it echoes down the gravel path. Molly is hunched over the coals, giving them a good poke, but no smoke rises. It’s been dead for too long. Caleb pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands and approaches, scuffing the dirt with his bare feet to make himself down.

“Need a little help, Mollymauk?” he asks quietly.

“Oh. Yes, that would be just lovely.” Molly tries to sit back on his haunches but misjudges it and overbalances, popping back onto his ass. “Ow, fuck, my tail!” He sounds more annoyed than in actual pain, so Caleb just busses the top of his head with his knuckles and kneels before the fire.

He takes a moment and stares at the coals. There’s not much in the way of kindling left, but the logs Yasha put on the night before are only half eaten away. They’ll burn a good while yet. He puts out his hands and crooks his fingers, pulling at thin air, wondering if whatever strange force had dispelled the magic in the mines is still active. 

Fire springs up readily—almost too readily for his own comfort. He snatches his hands back and watches, hollow-chested, as the flames lick up the logs and settle in as if they’d been burning all along. At his side, Molly lets out a low whistle. “Fuck me, that’s impressive. Have you always been able to do that?”

Caleb examines his palms. They’re a bit blackened, like he’d stuck his hands in the cold hearth and smeared char into the lines of his hands. As he watches, the black fades away into nothing. Clean skin again, a bit pink at the pads of his fingers. He curls his hands into fists and tucks them under his armpits. “ _Ja_ , I guess so.”

Molly hums and sidles a little closer, bum still flat to the ground. “I’ve never really seen you do magic before.”

Caleb thinks back. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

He hadn’t really had much need for magic at camp, apart from the occasional trick to entertain bored youngsters. Then, when he was a counselor, it was part of the contract to not use magic unless specifically requested by Gustav, the camp coordinator. Something to do with stricter bylaws imposed by the Empire. It wasn’t really a hindrance—Caleb had never got into the habit of relying on his magic, like some. Like Astrid or Eodwulf.

The long and short of it was that Molly, a later addition to their group, had never really seen Caleb _do_ magic before, because after camp there was school, and after school there was Dr. Ikithon, and then there was no magic left in him at all. Until today.

“I’ve always had it inside me,” Caleb whispers, watching the flames lick hungrily at the wood. It frightens him, to think that he was the agent of it, and yet soothing all the same. “It used to be… natural. I didn’t have to think about it, it just _was_. Like my freckles, or that horrible stammer I had up until I was thirteen.”

“You had a speech impediment?” Molly asks, sounding inexplicably fond. Caleb recalls the early days of knowing him, before Molly could speak, and relaxes into the camaraderie.

“A bit of one, ja. I had trouble with Common. I was… embarrassed, I suppose, of my accent. There weren’t many other Zemnian children at camp.”

“I think your accent is lovely,” Molly says with perfect sincerity. He reaches out, one hand laying open and palm-up upon his knee. Not demanding, just… offering. Caleb reaches out and laces their fingers together. “You should speak more Zemnian around us.”

“No one else here speaks it,” Caleb demurs.

“That’s all right. I like the sound of it.” He moves his elbow a little, nudging Caleb’s arm. “Only if you want to, though.”

Caleb smiles into the flames. “Ja, maybe I will.”

Crunching footsteps pull his eyes away from the fire pit, and he looks up to see Fjord approaching, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. He pauses mid-step when he sees Caleb and Molly sitting hand in hand. “Er—sorry, I’ll just—”

“Fjord, join us!” Molly says quickly before Caleb can swallow past the stone in his throat to speak. He doesn’t know why he’s so paralyzed, suddenly, but his tongue is leaden in his mouth and he can feel his hand begin to sweat in Molly’s grip. Molly pretends he doesn’t notice and pats the ground on his other side. “Come get warm, Caleb was kind enough to start a fire.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Fjord looks to Caleb like he’s asking permission. Caleb isn’t sure what he sees, but it must satisfy, because Fjord drapes his used towel over the back of a chair and settles onto the ground next to Molly. “Where’d the girls go?”

“Giving their new pet a bath.” Molly sounds peeved. “Jester claims they can’t turn it into the wildlife shelter until tomorrow because it’s no longer business hours, and Bryce turned a blind eye.” He flings out his free hand—his whole arm, really—in some sort of invitation, and Fjord hesitantly scooches over into Molly’s reach. Mollymauk threads his arm through Fjord’s and gives a satisfied hum in the back of his throat.

They sit quietly like that for a while, the three of them. There are questions in the air, important questions, but for the moment they don’t feel pressing. Slowly Caleb relaxes, lulled by the smoke and spit of the fire and the warmth of his friends. They chat idly between themselves, now and then, but mostly it’s just quiet. It’s… nice.

At one point Yasha steps out of the Stormchaser and unhitches her scooter from its rack. It must weigh upwards of two hundred pounds, but she lifts it effortlessly and wheels it past the fire pit.

“I’ll be back,” she says, lifting her hand to them—it looks like a farewell, but metal glints in midair and Molly detaches himself from Caleb just in time to snatch a set of keys out of the air. The Stormchaser’s keys.

“Don’t be long, darling,” he says, tucking them into the breast pocket of his jean jacket.

“I never am.” She nods to Caleb and Fjord, swings astride the scooter, and kickstarts the ignition. The sun sets before her as she peels slowly down the gravel drive and out of sight.

“Where is she going?” Fjord asks, voice low and husky in the dying light. The hair on the back of Caleb’s neck stands up as if the words had been whispered against his nape.

“Somewhere. She’s just… Yasha’ing. She’ll be back.” Molly doesn’t sound concerned at all—in fact he sounds downright relaxed. The calm it inspires in Caleb is a relief after the day he’s had. Then Molly says, “ _So_ ,” in a meaningful sort of way, and Caleb’s spine locks up in preparation.

“So?” Fjord prompts when there is no follow-through.

Molly huffs an awkward laugh. “Well I was going to ask what the _fuck_ just happened down there, but maybe we should wait for the others…?”

“Jester is only going to grill you later,” Caleb agrees. “But, you know. If there is anything you want to tell us before they get back…”

Fjord folds his arms tight across his chest and bows his head toward the flames. Bereft, Molly lets his left hand drift back into his lap. “I know,” Fjord says haltingly, “that you want an explanation, but. I don’t know if I can give it.”

“Can you try?” Caleb prompts gently.

The quiet stretches out, and for a minute Caleb worries that he’s pressed too far. He tightens his grip on Molly’s hand and feels an answering squeeze. Then—

“It felt like I was dreaming,” Fjord says, low and musing. “I thought it was just being underground in the dark that had me all anxious, but it kept getting worse and worse, and then once we found the secret passage… everything was quiet. Like there’d been this annoying buzz in the back of my head and then suddenly someone found the off switch. Except then I was removed from everything. Like that time, with the brownies.” He nudges Molly in the ribs, smiling a little. Molly casts Caleb a wicked grin. “I can remember everything pretty much up until Caleb found the little stream with the jewels and stuff in it. We didn’t take any of it, did we?” he asks suddenly, swinging his head around to pin them with a crystalline gaze.

“No,” Caleb says heavily. “We were too busy trying to escape with our lives.”

“Good.” Fjord rubs his face with his hands. “I mean… I just think it would have been a bad idea.”

“Yeah, that gold was definitely cursed,” Molly agrees lightly. “Which is why we didn’t say anything to Bryce about it. I’m pretty sure there was a cave-in, anyway.”

Caleb winces. Everything has kind of blurred together in his memory—the rumbling ground underfoot as they ran, the constant rush of water in his ears. Like they’d been outrunning the tide. But no ocean had risen to grasp at their heels, and eventually they had found their way to the surface, damp with sweat and salt-spray, but unscathed.

“Do you remember the eye?” he asks quietly. The smile drops from Molly’s face, and out of the corner of his eye Fjord bows his head.

“Yeah. It’s pretty much all I remember. It… I think it… spoke to me? But I can’t remember the words.”

_W A T C H I N G_

Caleb shivers and tries to shrug away the cold. The flames gutter for a moment before leaping up again, brighter than before.

“And what about,” Molly whispers, now hushed and serious, “what about the sword?”

A thoughtful pall falls over them. Caleb had forgotten about the sword, somehow—erased it from his perfect memory with fear and blind instinct as they ran through the tunnels, Nott's flickering flashlight barely keeping up. But now he sees it clearly in his mind’s eye: summoned out of thin air, dripping gouts of seawater, barnacles and algae clinging to the crosspiece.

“You know,” Molly says suddenly, “if you’re actually King Arthur reborn, you can tell us. We won’t laugh at you.”

Fjord snorts, and the grim mood splinters into nonsensical pieces. “Aren’t I meant to pull the blasted thing out of a stone?”

“I sincerely hope the Lady of the Lake wasn’t actually a giant yellow eye,” Caleb murmurs, lips curling at the edges. It feels good to smile, to laugh it off—the icy dread pooling in his stomach dissipates in the warmth of Molly’s giggles and Fjord’s subdued grin.

“Imagine how fucking _terrifying_ —”

“I don’t have to imagine, I saw it!” Fjord interrupts, and Molly is lost to giggles again.

“Hey you!” Jester calls, skipping around Fjord’s truck with her arms full of black feathers. “What are you laughing about without us!”

“And where’s Yasha and Nott?” Beau asks. Between the two of them, Beau is the one soaked to the skin, and looking none too pleased about it.

“Yasha went into town for some stuff,” Molly says, glossing over the fact that she had clarified no such thing. “Nott… I actually have no goddamn clue.”

Guilt spears Caleb deep, and he scrambles upright. “I’ll go find her. She’s probably napping in the tent or something.”

She is not in the tent. Her suitcase has been disrupted, though, so that’s encouraging. He pokes his head into the Stormchaser and finds her flask on the counter, but otherwise the camper is devoid of life. He’s beginning to worry, stomach twisting up in knots, when he happens to look out the rear window and sees a little green-grey shape moving in the scrub-brush beyond their campsite.

He steps out of the Stormchaser and strikes out carefully, mindful of his bare feet. The ground is pretty dry out here, the packed earth strewn with pebbles and the occasional patch of tenacious chickoree or sagebrush, and it wouldn’t do to step on something sharp.

“Nott?” he calls, when the dwindling light proves too much for his weak human eyes. “Are you out here?”

There’s a rustle and a soft curse, and then Nott appears, tucking something into her pocket. “I’m here. What’s wrong? Are you okay, did something happen?”

“Everything’s fine, I think.” Caleb watches her closely as she bounds over to him. She’s changed into leggings and one of Beau’s gym hoodies, which is long enough in the sleeve that her hands are mostly hidden. Her hair is still a riot of tiny braids from Caleb’s nervous fidgeting, before. “Are _you_ alright?”

“I’m great,” Nott says in that way she has that dares him to question her. She puts her hands on her hips and stares at up at him. An impasse.

“What were you doing out here?” Caleb asks, because he might as well. The worst that could happen is that she would refuse to answer, and that’s a path he’s walked many times before. He’s no stranger to her moods.

“Nothing,” she says immediately. Then, “I was looking for—I thought—”

Caleb looks around for a flat patch of ground. He finds a suitable boulder and drops onto it, elbows on his knees. Nott looks at him for a moment before coming closer, scuffing her bare feet in the dirt. “You thought what, _liebling_?”

“I wanted to help you find Frumpkin,” she says quietly. “But I know you need special… items. So I thought maybe… these might help?” She sticks her hands deep into her pockets and brings them out again, palms up. Gold glints in her cupped hands, gold and red and deep, ocean-touched blue. A necklace, three strands of delicate chain stringing together rubies and sapphires and pearls. It’s so glittering and perfect, so free of tarnish, that it almost looks fake. Caleb’s stomach twists with nerves.

“Nott, where did you find that?”

“I took it from the cave,” Nott admits in a whisper. “Do you think it’s okay?”

Caleb rubs his face and tries to think. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” _It’s definitely cursed_ , says Molly’s voice in his head, endlessly jovial. “It might have been a bad idea to take it, Nott.”

“Why? No one was using it.”

“We don’t know that. What if… that thing, down there, wants it? What if it comes looking?”

Nott rolls her eyes and shoves the stolen treasure back into her pockets. “Oh, what, a giant old eyeball is gonna come floating through the sky, bellowing for a couple bits of shitty costume jewelry? I doubt it.” Her eyes glint nervously in spite of her bold words. “Would it help you get Frumpkin back?”

“I don’t think so. I need to do a little research, but I think… incense. Yes. And a little clay dish.” He rubs his head, trying to remember. It’s been so long since he first summoned Frumpkin, and in those days his head wasn’t always in the best place to keep track of things.

“We can go into town tomorrow and get them,” Nott says. She reaches out and takes his hand, rubbing soft little circle into the center of his palm. His shoulders slump and he leans against her shoulder, tears gathering inexplicably in his eyes. If Nott can feel him trembling and turning hot with grief, she doesn’t own it; just runs her sharp fingernails through his hair from temple to nape, coiling around the messy curls on top and scritching the shorter strands beneath.

“Sorry,” he says eventually, pulling away to rub at his eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” Nott puts her hands to either side of his face and leans in. With him sitting nearly on the ground, she’s at the perfect height to place a maternal sort of kiss on the top of his head. “C’mon, I’m starving. Let’s start dinner.”

“Okay.” With a wan smile, Caleb dabs his face dry and stands. They walk back to the campsite hand in hand as twilight unspools around them, slow, faded, smelling faintly of sagebrush and old salt.

* * *

Yasha returns to camp around midnight. Caleb hears the soft distant hum of her scooter from where he’s laying on a blanket in front of the fire, head pillowed on Jester’s soft thigh. He’s been drifting for a little while in the warmth—Fjord even dug out his ukelele from his truck and noodled around a little, adding to the calm aura hovering over everything. The events of earlier that day feel weeks removed. Molly burned incense earlier and the scent still lingers, smoky and a little raw. It almost covers the pungent burn of weed as Beau exhales in a smooth stream and passes the bowl around to Nott.

“Started the party without me, I see,” Yasha says as she dismounts. She paces to the fireside in her boots and frayed jeans like a cowboy returned from a long sojourn, and holds out a plastic shopping bag to Caleb. “These are for you.”

“What?” Moving slow, mind still stuck in that sweet, muddled haze, Caleb reaches up and takes the bag. “What’s this?”

“Go ahead and look. It should be the right kind, I asked the shopkeeper for magical incense specifically.”

Caleb sits up and rifles through the bag. Inside he finds a packet of incense—not the kind Molly had burned earlier, the long cheap sticks, but carefully-formed little cones in shades of red and bright orange—and a special ceramic plate about the size of his palm with an indent in the center. There are some crude runes drawn onto the plate, more for aesthetic than anything, but when he looks underneath there’s a sigil stamped into the bottom. He rubs it with his thumb and feels his nape prickle.

“This is perfect,” he says, voice gone hoarse from the smoke. “How—Yasha…”

“Don’t worry about it, okay,” she says gruffly. She scuffs her heels as she backs away toward her scooter. “Just. Do what you need to do. I’m gonna put Baby away.”

Everyone sort of stirs themselves from their somnolence and gathers closer as Caleb lines the components up in front of him. One cone of incense should do it, but he sets two extra out just in case he fucks it up the first time. Part of him wants to dig his phone out and look up the spell, just in case, but he forces his itching fingers away from his pocket. He knows Frumpkin like the back of his hand—better, even. The intent will be enough.

He can feel Fjord hovering close on one side, Jester and Molly on the other. Nott is crouched directly across the dwindling fire, eyes reflecting gold and the deep, well-aged red of the coals. Yasha finishes putting her scooter back up on the Stormchaser’s rear end and she comes close, standing a little behind Beau. All of them together, watching. Lending their aid and their energy. Caleb kindles the tip of his finger to flame and holds it to the incense peak.

Slowly, a pale purple wisp of smoke is conjured. Caleb lets himself breathe it in. It’s a sharp, heady smell, like hot sand and crushed honeycomb and sap running loose in the trees come spring. It sinks deep behind his eyes and coats his tongue with its fragrance. It fills the aching hollow in his chest. Hands out in front of him, knees tucked close to his chest, Caleb reaches through the veil.

He watches it happen through half-lidded eyes. The incense burns slow as the smoke billows in thick clouds around him. It hangs like a shawl about his shoulders and laces itself through his fingers like yarn with a life of its own. Playful. Inspired. Familiar. _Familiar_. Caleb inhales deeply through his nose and breathes it out, letting Sylvan bloom on his tongue like an old, mellow fruit-wine _. Frumpkin, my boy, come back to me. I miss you._

The smoke curls and curdles, and Caleb smiles to feel fur against his fingers. A moment later there is a flash of heat and the tickle of whiskers, and Frumpkin slips into his hands, heavy and warm and real. Meowing to be held. Caleb buries his face into Frumpkin’s fur and weeps.

Time moves slow and strangely for a little while. When he comes back to himself, Frumpkin is asleep in a ball on his chest, just heavy enough to be a comfort instead of stifling. The fire is at his feet, low but well-stoked to burn throughout the night. Yasha must have seen to it—she’s always had a knack for the survival skills.

He’s lying on the ground, but it’s surprisingly comfortable with a balled-up jacket beneath his head (Molly’s ancient, threadbare windbreaker from the musty-sandalwood-dried flower smell of it). To his left is Mollymauk himself, curled on his side and breathing shallowly against the pillow of his own forearm. Jester is snuggled up to him with Beau on her other side, their rescue bird a fluffy pile at Jester’s feet.

To Caleb’s left is Fjord—big, shadowed, and snoring quietly. His face is turned away from Caleb, but one hand rests proprietarily on Caleb’s hip, and Caleb in turn has found a loose grip around Fjord’s wrist. He can feel Fjord’s pulse beneath his fingers. Steady. Caleb’s heart aches.

Fjord snuffles in his sleep suddenly and shifts. When his eyes blink open, they catch the banked firelight and reflect like Frumpkin’s do, twin yellow mirrors like the moons in the sky. They catch Caleb watching, and wrinkle into a smile.

“You awake?” he whispers.

“Yeah. I didn’t… mean for everyone to sleep outside.”

“It’s all right. Does a person good to sleep under the stars once in a while.” Fjord slings his other arm behind his head and tips his chin to the sky. His brow is smooth and untroubled in the dark. “Did you want to move to the tent?”

“No, that’s all right.” Caleb’s thumb moves of its own accord, stroking the thin skin of Fjord’s inner wrist. Fjord’s hand curls in response, up, up until their fingers interlace together. “I don’t want to wake everyone.”

Silence drifts again, and for a moment Caleb flirts with sleep, feels its impatient pull at the weft of his consciousness. Then Fjord shifts again, turning onto his side. His hand leaves Caleb’s to tuck up under his head, but the other scoots across the ground to graze Caleb’s side tentatively—an unspoken query. Caleb, sleep-drunk and still a little bit high, tugs Fjord’s arm easily across his waist.

“Do you think,” Fjord whispers, “that I’m—d’you think…”

Caleb turns his head to meet his gaze more fully. “Do I think you’re what?”

Fjord takes a shaky breath. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Absolutely not,” Caleb says vehemently. He’s a little more awake, now, awake enough to notice the smile lines creasing into worry at the corners of Fjord’s eyes. “I don’t know what that… that thing was, or what it wants, but… you’re _ours_ , okay? We’ll keep you safe.”

Fjord huffs a wet sort of laugh, like he’s choking back tears. Frumpkin gives an answering _mew_ and stands, stabbing Caleb’s chest and tummy with his paws as he walks down his body to curl between his calves instead. Fjord rubs his face and drapes his hand back where it was before, across Caleb’s body. “Something,” Fjord begins, and falters. “Something happened to me. Last winter.”

Caleb feels himself begin to grow cold, and he is grateful for the warmth of Fjord’s embrace. “What was it?”

“A… an accident. On the ship.” He swallows, and the firelight highlights the dramatic bob of his throat. “We ran afoul of a storm, the week before the New Year. We were farther north than usual, fishing for silvercrane near Nicodranas, and… we went down.”

Fjord is shivering. Caleb can feel it, the tremors leaving Fjord’s hand and rippling through his own ribcage to where his heart pounds unsteadily, lurched into an arrhythmic rapidfire beat by Fjord’s confession. “But you survived.”

“I mean,” Fjord laughs, still barely a whisper, but strained and stiff-edged. “I must have. Right? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes. You’re here with us.” Caleb clutches his forearm to himself, willing Fjord to feel Caleb’s own heat and vitality. “With _me_.”

Fjord takes a long, steadying breath. “I don’t know how I survived. I don’t remember… much. I woke up in a hospital, was told I washed ashore—that they were still looking for other survivors. I wasn’t too bad off, so I… I discharged myself and caught a bus back to Port Damali, and. And that was that. It was like the whole job was just a dream. Except…”

“Except what?” Caleb whispers.

“Except… I started having these… these visions. Strange dreams I couldn’t remember in the morning. I started to feel like I was bein’ followed. I went and saw a therapist and they said it was survivor’s guilt, PTSD, but I… I don’t know. And now all of this is happenin’ in the middle of our trip. It’s not fair,” he whispers suddenly, fiercer than anything before. “All I wanted was some god damn peace and quiet. My friends around me. The people I love. And I just… I can’t escape it.”

Caleb doesn’t know what to say. A million sympathies rise to his lips and die again, withered by insecurity. Everything sounds so hollow in his head. Like he’s making it about him, and not the pain that Fjord has suffered.

“You’re right,” he says at last, through a dry and scratchy throat. “It isn’t fair. I’m sorry, Fjord.”

“Hff. For what?”

Caleb looks up at the stars, connecting their empty places with thin silver thread in his mind. “That any of this happened to you. That you felt like you couldn’t tell us about… about what happened.”

“I just,” Fjord says helplessly. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to bother anyone. And I was fine, physically, so… what use would it have been, to mention it? I live so far away from the rest of the group, I didn’t want to ask for… for any special favors.”

“ _Fjord_ ,” Caleb whispers through the pain cracking his chest. “You absolute idiot. We would have gladly come to you, even just for small visits. We would have called you every day. We _love_ you, more than anything. You’re family.” On his other side, Molly sniffles in his sleep and rolls onto his back. Caleb lowers his voice and says again, more calmly, “We love you, Fjord. What on earth makes you think you aren’t worthy of it?”

Silence greets him. When Caleb looks over, Fjord’s mouth is tight and drawn, and tears slip easily down his temple and along his cheeks to pool in the hollow of his throat. Caleb knows that torment. The visceral clutch of the inner chest, the sodden lungs, the thick wet heat that envelopes the sinuses until you have to gasp for air like you’re drowning in your own fluids, and _still_ you cannot bring yourself to sob aloud.

“When I was ill,” Caleb says softly, “you couldn’t visit me, because of work and money, but you still texted me all the time. You even wrote me a letter by hand once. Do you remember?” Fjord nods. “It meant the world to me. Still does. If there is anything I can do, ever, to repay even a smidgen of that thoughtfulness, I will do it in a heartbeat. You only have to ask.”

Caleb doesn’t expect an answer right away. He pats Fjord’s hand and rubs little circles on the inside of his corded forearm until the shivering subsides. Finally, Fjord exhales hotly into the night sky and rubs his cheeks with his sleeve. “Thank you, Caleb. And thank… thank you for listenin’,”

“Of course. Whenever you need." Caleb taps his thumb against the surprisingly delicate bones of Fjord’s wrist. “You know everyone’s gonna want to grill you tomorrow. Once they’re awake and sober.”

“It’s only fair, I s’pose.” Fjord sniffles, sighs. “You don’t mind if I… sleep close, do you? Only I’ve been a little too spooked to sleep much tonight, and I’m. I’m tired.”

Caleb squeezes his hand and smiles, leaning to press their foreheads together. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note that will no doubt be expanded on later in the actual story: when I started writing this, Molly's gender ID hadn't yet been confirmed (also he wasn't fuckin dead, but here we are). I set out to write Caleb as gay; everyone else was sort of a spectrum of queerness that I wanted to figure out as I went (excluding Beau who has always obviously been a raging lesbian). With the shifting sands of canon informing my work, some of that might change direction. Obviously this is a WIP so anything and everything is subject to change, but your patience is appreciated as I figure out how Molly being GNC fits into my road map. 
> 
> If you read that block of text, kudos to you! Any feedback on the subject is welcome, but do me a solid and try not to A) offer your opinion if you're straight, and B) be rude. Please and thank you <3
> 
> The track for this chapter: Oh Sailor by Mr Little Jeans


	14. you speak your mind and you cannot take it back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fjord loses his snuggle buddy. Caleb loses his temper. Molly loses his sense of self-preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, kids, to another episode of "I wrote this chapter over a month ago and I can't remember if it's any good." Don't forget to check out the other two fics in this series, which are missing scenes from the main story! 
> 
> WARNINGS for this chapter: shitty parenting courtesy of Beau's father.

_Nine years prior. Beau._

“Sorry to have to do this again, Mr. Lionett. If you could just sign—”

“Yes, thank you.” The upturned hand held more weight than the tenor of his voice, and together they were like the strike of a hammer coming down on hot steel. “I know the drill by now.”

Beau stared dead-eyed at a point on the wall behind her father as he signed the release form with a practiced flourish. It gave her no small amount of pleasure knowing that out of all the signatures he put down on a daily basis, this was the one that rankled hardest.

“Thank you, guardsman,” Beau’s father said. The pen fell to the desk with a clatter. It probably cost more than the good Crownsguard’s monthly paycheck; the weight of it echoed in the quiet office in spite of the tasteful drapes and layered tapestries intended to keep loud noises to a minimum. Mr. Lionett sometimes conducted… distasteful business at home, and it was best to take every precaution. “You may remove the handcuffs from my daughter now.”

Beau ground her teeth and jerked away from the Crownsguard’s grasp. Manicured nails tapped impatiently against the desk as her father regarded the scene, face impassive. Like an opera patron who disapproved of the first soprano’s vibrato. This time when the Crownsguard reached for her, she let him. The handcuffs unsnapped and she pulled her hands in front of her, massaging her wrists.

“Thank you, Mr. Lionett. Your patience is… greatly appreciated.” The guard—little more than a boy, really, though he’d roughed her up without much of a breach of conscience—gave her a nasty look on his way out, signature in hand.

Silence fell. Beau waited a beat, just out of sheer habit, and then pushed herself out of the chair and turned to walk away.

“Beauregard.”

Beau clenched her bloodied knuckles. It hadn’t been a pretty scene this time, like they sometimes were. Not a bust in the middle of a high-stakes poker game, steeped in cigarette smoke and mystery; not a drop gone wrong in the middle of a gala. Just Beau and the mark and her own two fists, struggling in a damp back alley for a piece of paper that now sat in the hands of the Crownsguard. She probed a loose tooth with her tongue and refused to turn around. The pause was acknowledgement enough.

“This cannot continue,” her father said. “I know I’ve said it before, but this. This is the last time.”

“Sure, Dad.” Beau moved toward the door.

“Beauregard.”

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. The regret in his voice was almost enough to make her want to turn around—but she knew his tricks.

“I’m leaving for a business trip tomorrow. If I return to find you’ve meddled in my affairs again, there _will_ be consequences. And I don’t mean a night in a jail cell, or something so blase as community service.”

“Are you done?” Beau asked. Then she _did_ turn around, spinning on her heel just for the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face when she spat a bloody wad of saliva onto the fancy polished floor.

“Yes,” her father murmured, pale eyes blank and flat as a shark’s as he regarded her from across the room. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

She slammed the door on the way out. It was petty, and it stung the scrapes on her palms, but there was something intensely satisfying about it anyway. The portrait of her father that hung beside the door trembled a little on the wall and sat askew. Perfect.

In her room, she locked the door and began preparations for a cold shower. In spite of her earlier defiance, her body ached and stung; she limped to the ensuite bathroom and braced her fists against the sink. Her own reflection stared back at her, painted with the evidence of an afternoon’s mischief. Split lower lip, a cut across her brow, the beginnings of a truly spectacular shiner beginning to flush beneath her eye socket. She flipped the mirror the bird and grinned. Not her best day, but _damn_ it felt good to just run riot through the streets and punch people sometimes.

She spent the evening alone tending to her wounds and ignoring the dinner tray one of the maids left outside her room. When it had finally congealed and been removed, and the hour was late enough that even daddy dearest would have gone to bed, she put on her rattiest pajamas and sauntered down to raid the kitchen.

She was halfway up the grand staircase with her arms full of ice cream and fancy cheese when she heard voices. Daddy dearest had _not_ gone to bed after all. Beau tiptoed at top speed the rest of the way and then squatted behind a potted plant to listen in.

“...appreciate you taking the time to come on such short notice, Archivist,” her father was saying, his voice growing louder as he walked his guest to the front door. “And at such a late hour.”

“It’s not a problem at all.” The speaker sounded highbrow as shit, all velvet-smooth vowels that pitched high against the back of the throat. “The Cobalt Soul is happy to intervene on the behalf of such a generous benefactor as yourself.”

 _Cobalt Soul._ Beau mouthed the words silently to herself, juggling her ice cream to the other arm to avoid freezing her skin off. The outside of the carton was starting to sweat, though, and she fumbled for a second before it slipped out of her hands and tumbled, step by step, all the way to the bottom of the stairs. Utter silence from below. She peeked between the palm fronds.

Her father was staring straight up at her, mid-handshake with a shorter, slithery-looking blond in a set of monk attire. But not like the cool monk attire—the flowy, saggy kind that meant the wearer was more of a “scholarly” type that sat around tending dusty books all day. Beau gave them a short little wave, turned, and bolted.

It took her between the stairwell and the turn down the hall to her room to remember what the Cobalt Soul was. An agnostic order of monks, very snooty, and very, _very_ disinclined to mingle with those they thought below them. Street folk. Alley rats. Criminals. The sorts of people Beau called friends. They weren’t the kind of monks who stood at street corners jingling bells come the holidays, pandering to upper crust assholes for the sake of the less fortunate. They were scholars. Warriors, some people said, living in the pocket of the Empire.

 _The Cobalt Soul is happy to intervene_. What the _fuck_ did that mean?

Beau careened into her rooms shoulder-first. She didn’t bother locking the door—she intended to be gone before anyone had a prayer of catching up. She shoved her feet into sneakers and dropped to her knees, fumbling under her bed for her emergency bag. Kept just in case someone less savory than the Crownsguard came poking around her father’s estate. The Cobalt Soul, she decided, counted as _less savory._ They were largely an unknown. At least the police she was used to dealing with.

She slipped the bag over her head and made for the windows. There was a split second of hesitation—had she really left the latch open all day?—and then she was on the balcony and it was too late.

The only warning she had was a swift blur in the dark. Something struck her shoulder, hard, and instead of vaulting over the railing and climbing down the trellis as she’d intended, a wave of dizziness sent her to her knees. She kept hold of her stomach only by virtue of having nothing inside it. A moment later she was face-first on the tiles, neck aching and the weight of someone’s foot pressing down against the small of her back.

“Miss Beauregard Lionett, I presume,” said a low voice. Androgynous and gravelly to Beau’s ringing ears. After waiting a beat, the pressure eased. Beau tried to scramble up onto her hands and knees, but suddenly her bag was wrenched free and she found her arms pinned neatly behind her back. “Miss Lionett, please do not attempt escape. We are here to help.”

“To _help_?” Beau squawked. She wriggled a little more out of sheer stubbornness, but left off when the strain in her shoulders became too much. “Fuckin’ _ow_ , let go of me! Who the hell are you?”

Before her faceless captor could make a response, footsteps ran to the window. There was a balmy sigh of relief. “Ah, Dairon. You caught her. Most excellent. As you can see, Mr. Lionett, there is little that escapes our notice. Spunky she might be, but your daughter will have little opportunity to make any… inadvisable moves while in our care.”

“In your _care_?” Beau echoed. She gave up struggling and laid still, breathing hard against the cold balcony floor. From this angle she could just make out two shapes silhouetted against the window: a shorter, slimmer person swaddled in robes, and the stockier, unmistakable form of her father. “Dad, what the fuck is going on? Make him let me go!”

“Not a he,” said the voice of her captor, velvet-rich with amusement, “but no matter.”

“Well I can’t fuckin’ see you, all right? It’s the middle of the night.” Beau forced herself to take deep breaths, trying to ignore the clammy chill taking hold of her limbs. Her father hadn’t responded—was just standing there, impassive, staring down at the humiliating scene. “Dad—”

“Beauregard,” he interrupted, in that horrible, toneless voice she knew so well. Beau’s scattered attempts at begging for mercy dissolved into a helpless wheeze. “These good people are here to take you in and instruct you in the way of the Cobalt Soul. It’s become very clear to me that you need more structure and discipline in your life. The former I cannot provide; the latter is no longer within my power. The business trip I alluded to has become a bit of a longer excursion that originally planned, therefore I am sending you to the monastery for training while I am gone.”

The chill became a furious cold, bone-deep and relentless. The monk pinning her to the floor released her, and she couldn’t even summon the wherewithal to bolt. Slowly, trembling, Beau locked her elbows and pushed herself up onto hands and knees; then her feet. She lifted her chin as high as it would go and looked her father in the eye.

“Fuck you,” she said, as cleanly as she could make it even though her voice shook. It was difficult to make him out with the light at his back, but the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth was familiar and unmistakable, the edge of his mustache tipped in gold.

“Archivist, Expositor.” He didn’t even pretend to address her. “She’s all yours. I wish you luck. You’ll certainly need it.”

Beau considered, very briefly, trying to run. But the Expositor, Dairon, still loomed at her side, and Beau could tell even from the corner of her eye that she was far, far faster than Beau. Even if she did manage to jump over the side and land cleanly two floors down—unlikely—the monks would be on her in a second. She clenched her fists at her sides and turned away.

“And Beauregard,” her father said, into the balmy stillness of midnight, “I wish you well. Truly. May you return to me in a year or two a changed woman.”

The emphasis on _woman_ was almost more than Beau could bear. She shut her eyes while her father made his farewells to the monks and turned his back on her.

She refused to watch him go.

* * *

_Present day._

The smell of bacon wakes Caleb from a deep sleep. His mouth is already watering as his eyes open to a fresh-washed summer sky, still tinted with early morning pink. He’s a bit stiff from lying on the ground all night, but his head is still well-supported under Molly’s jacket, and he doesn’t want for warmth—at some point during the night, Fjord had spooned right up around him, and he radiates heat like a forge. His nose is tucked right up against Caleb’s cheek. Caleb can smell him, the sleep-musk and sour breath. It’s… perfect.

But there are other, more immediate matters demanding his attention than lying in Fjord’s arms all morning. One of the most pressing being his bladder. Even more pressing, the smell of breakfast and the soft, hushed murmurs of his friends as they tiptoe around the campsite, going about their business. With great reluctance, Caleb rubs sleep from his eyes and wriggles free of Fjord to sit up and take stock.

“Morning, cuddle bug,” Molly says, grinning at him across the fire. He’s apparently manning the bacon, which is a dubious choice, but nothing is burning yet. “Sleep well?”

“Actually yes.” Caleb stifles a yawn and pats Fjord on the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepy head. There’s breakfast.”

“Mnngngh,” says Fjord, with great articulation. He slings an arm across Caleb’s lap and shoves his face into Caleb’s hip, and appears to go back to sleep. Caleb gives Molly a plaintive look, but receives no sympathy.

“I retract my earlier statement— _Fjord_ is the cuddle bug in this scenario.” Molly pushes his hair out of his eyes and grabs the handle of the pan to lift it off the fire grate. Caleb winces automatically, but Molly doesn’t seem bothered by the proximity of the flames. He shakes a small mountain of bacon onto a paper plate and returns the pan to the fire. “How do you want your eggs, darling? Keep in mind I have very minimal control over how anything turns out.”

“Scrambled is fine. Do you want help?”

Molly gives him a _look_. “If you think you can escape the clutches of your big adorable leech, by all means.”

“I want mine over easy,” Beau pipes up as she steps out of the tent, towelling her hair. “If you break a yolk I’m disowning you.”

“Oh thank god. Has it really been that easy this whole time?”

“Shut up, idiot.” She twists up her damp towel and snaps him in the back with it, but it’s a half-hearted attempt; the towel makes a sad, clothy _fwump_ noise instead of the intended _snap_ , and Molly cackles. “Fine, whatever, make whatever you want. I’m starving anyway, doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

“Where is everyone?” Caleb asks, finally prying himself out of Fjord’s arms and stretching his arms to the sky. A cool breeze wafts against his lower belly as his shirt rides up and he scratches his belly button idly.

“Let’s see.” Beau begins to count on her fingers. “Nott is showering, or dustbathing, or whatever it is she does. I think she took the bird with her. Jester is being a pillow princess in the Stormchaser all by her lonesome—”

“TMI,” Caleb mutters.

“—Yasha went into town for donuts because Jester batted her lashes and heaved her bosom at her—”

“Whoa whoa whoa. Pause.” Molly pauses mid-crack, egg suspended in the air above the pan. “She what now?” He looks around quickly, but it’s just the three of them awake and alert in the middle of the campsite. “Is there something going on with the three of you?”

Beau blinks at him over her splayed fingers. “What?”

“First you and Yash—which, nice, that’s been needing to happen for a while—and now Jester’s in the mix too?”

“I mean, she _is_ my girlfriend.” Beau squints suspiciously. “Why do you want to know? Are you feeling some type of way? Because I’m sorry to tell you, Jess can ride your dick all she wants but I’d really rather not have your naked ass within a mile of me.”

Caleb coughs. “Uh, should I… leave?”

“I’m sorry to tell you my naked ass has _already_ been within a mile of you, sweetheart,” Molly snips, not seeming to hear him.

“Doesn’t mean I want to know about it!”

“Jiminy Christmas, can’t a girl have some peace and quiet for two seconds without you two going at it?” Jester demands suddenly from the Stormchaser’s side door. She’s wearing one of Molly’s semi-sheer wraps and little else, and Caleb averts his eyes to his shoes, ears burning. “Wait. Are you fighting? Is this a fight? What’s going on?”

“We’re not fighting!” Beau insists even as Molly says, “We’re always fighting, obviously.” They stop and look at each other.

“ _Are_ we fighting?” Molly asks, suddenly small-voiced.

At Caleb’s feet, Fjord lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and sits up. “I dunno, sure sounded like it to me.” He rubs his eyes and leans against Caleb’s thigh like he’s having a hard time keeping himself upright. “It’s too early for it, can you maybe reschedule?”

Beau clears her throat. “Um. Sorry, I guess? I’m not mad at you, Molly.”

“Are you mad at _me_?” Jester demands, arms crossed in front of her chest. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing a bra, and in Caleb’s desperate attempts not to look directly at her, he finds himself running his fingers through Fjord’s disorderly hair. Fjord rumbles contentedly in his chest and leans harder against him, like a dog begging for pets.

“I’m not mad at anyone!” Beau insists. “I just wanted to know if _Molly_ was mad!”

“Then why didn’t you say so? I’m _not_ mad, for the record,” Molly adds, a little desperately, “I just wanted to know what’s going on. Because if there’s a new dynamic I’m on the fringes of I’d like to know about it, so I can act accordingly.” He peers into the pan suddenly. “Also the eggs are burning, so thanks for that, Unpleasant One.”

“You’re welcome, Obnoxious One.” Beau gives him a halfhearted sneer, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Okay,” Jester sighs. “If you’re not mad, and Molly’s not mad, then we’re not fighting. Right?” She spins suddenly to look at Caleb, eyes narrowed. He freezes with his hand cupped to the back of Fjord’s head. “Are _you_ mad, Caleb?”

“I’m not mad! I’m just here!” He looks around at the group, a little anxious at suddenly being the center of attention. “You can all sleep with whoever you want, I don’t care. As long as it doesn’t mess with the group dynamic,” he amends. “But I really don’t need to know the details.”

Beau shifts her feet. “Should we, like… hash this out now? I feel weird doing it without Yasha.”

“Let’s just eat breakfast and worry about it later,” Molly says, scraping the egg mess out of the pan and starting fresh. “I’m way too hungry and not nearly caffeinated enough for this conversation.”

“Hear, hear.” Jester takes a few bouncing steps toward the fire and then pauses. “I’ll, ummmm. Just go put some pants on.”

“Only if you want to,” Beau says solicitously. “You look great, babe.”

“Thank you, it’s Molly’s.” Jester twirls. She’s _definitely_ not wearing anything underneath.

“And you’re welcome to borrow it anytime,” Molly says, “but also I think Caleb is going to combust from embarrassment at seeing that much thigh, so. Pants might be a good idea. Or pant _ies_ , at the very least.”

Jester snickers and blows Caleb a kiss before skipping back into the Stormchaser. Caleb covers his face with his hands. “It’s too early for this,” he mutters, words muffled against his palms. Still on the ground, Fjord mumbles his agreement.

“I’ll go make coffee,” Beau says by way of apology, and flees.

Then it’s just the three of them again. Caleb considers making his escape to use the bathhouse, but there’s something to the unhappy quirk of Molly’s mouth that stays him. “Molls?” he says quietly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Molly replies instantly, voice flat.

“Right. Because that sounded believable.”

Molly lifts his eyebrows at him as he spills another egg into the pan flawlessly. “Are you also a weird part of this… this fourway fuckery? Or are you just digging for the gossip factor?”

Caleb’s stomach drops at the same time that Fjord tightens his grip on the back of his calf. “Hey now,” Fjord says, sounding much more awake. “That’s not fair.”

“We are a family,” Caleb says quietly, hunger curdling to vague, anxious nausea in his stomach. “What affects one or two or three of us affects us all. We do not have to be _fucking_ ,” and gods, it feels cathartic to spit that word in Molly’s face, “for unhappiness to mean something.”

Before Molly can say anything, he steps free of the firepit and Fjord’s touch and leaves the campsite, shaking with anger. The sudden hot swell of it has caught him off guard. He isn’t usually the one to have outbursts—that’s Beau, or Molly, or occasionally Jester when she’s in a mood. Unfamiliar heat stains the back of his tongue with a weird metallic taste as he pushes into the bathhouse and makes his way to a stall, every step echoing against the cement floor.

He uses the bathroom and then just sits there for awhile, elbows on knees and head in hands as he gathers himself. He doesn’t cry, even though there’s a dangerous prickling behind his eyes—he can’t quite bring the tears to spill over. He’s too _annoyed_. Annoyed at how stupid and petty it is, after Fjord probably almost died yesterday, to be fighting over who’s putting their bits on who.

After a few minutes of wrestling with himself, he leaves the stall and washes his hands, splashing a little water on his face to calm down. His hair is a red rat’s nest in the rust-flecked mirror, and he looks tired but flushed with irritable vigor under his starmap of freckles. He longs for a hot shower, but storming out of camp with nothing but the clothes on his back doesn’t leave him many options, so he gives his reflection a halfhearted thumbs up and leaves the bathhouse.

He walks right into a cloud of smoke that smells pungently of cloves and licorice. Molly is leaning against the wall just outside the door, cigarillo between his lips, but he tamps it out against his own wrist when Caleb appears, tail swishing nervously behind him.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Caleb says, before Molly can get the jump.

“It doesn’t hurt me.” Molly holds out his arm for inspection. His skin where the cigarillo touched is unblemished, except for a speck of ash. A little further up, flowers bloom amid coiling scales, a familiar swathe of color covering older scars. The red-eyed serpent seems to stare out of the side of Molly’s hand, terribly lifelike—Caleb knows it’s from before, one of many souvenirs of a life Molly can’t remember, but it’s eerie all the same. “I’ll stop if it bothers you,” Molly adds contritely, jerking Caleb back around to reality.

“Thank you.” Caleb eyes the innocuous brown stick threaded between Molly’s fingers. He also wishes Molly wouldn’t smoke, but he knows that’s a battle he can’t win. “Bathrooms are all free if you want them.”

“I wanted to catch you alone, actually. If you don’t mind.”

Caleb shrugs, still avoiding eye contact. “Sure.”

Molly rolls the cigarillo between his fingers, over and over and over. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. Things are—well. It doesn’t matter. You’re utterly sweet and genuine and you didn’t deserve that.”

Caleb huffs. “Calling me nice things isn’t going to make everything magically better, you know.”

Molly is quiet for a long while. “I know.” _Roll roll roll._ Flecks of tobacco are crumbling away under Molly’s fingers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I told you I’d do better and I’ve already fucked it up, haven’t I.”

 _Roll roll roll_. Caleb reaches out and catches Molly’s wrist in his hands. His skin is almost hot to the touch, hotter than normal, like flames are trapped beneath his skin. Caleb can sympathize. “Moll…”

“Ja?”

“Hff. Stop it, you.” Caleb smiles in spite of himself, but it doesn’t last very long. “If you’re upset about Jester and Beau and Yasha, I wish you would admit it. It’s not going to help anything, keeping it in.”

“I’m not…” Molly stops, heaves a sigh. The warmth of his breath smells like smoke and anise. “I’m not upset at them, really. It just feels a little bit like Beau is… is trying to play it off as nothing, when it’s clearly not. And if their relationship is changing, I feel I have the right to know. Jester and I… we’ve had a thing for a while. And I’m not claiming anything, I don’t have first rights or whatever bullshit—I’m not her _boyfriend_ —”

“Do you want to be?” Caleb asks.

“I…” Molly trails off, apparently thrown by the question. His brow wrinkles adorably. “No, I don’t think so. I adore Jester, obviously, but I. I don’t think she needs me.”

Caleb blinks. “That’s your criteria?”

“The needing should always be mutual, I think.” Molly frowns at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to cry.”

Caleb’s mouth works a moment, trying to find the right words. But nothing comes to him. Common has abandoned him yet again, fleeing to parts unknown. With a helpless sigh, Caleb tugs Molly forward and hugs him as hard as he can.

“Hey, hey,” Molly says, laughing into his shoulder. Arms loop cautiously around Caleb’s waist and hug him in turn. “What’s this?”

Caleb shuts his eyes and just breathes him in. “I need you,” he says, in a very small voice. “We all do.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Molly demurs, smiles in his voice—but Caleb still feels the unsteady _thump-thump_ of Molly’s heart in his chest at his words.

“It is,” Caleb insists. He spreads his hands across Molly’s lean ribs like he can somehow _push_ all the gentle affection he carries through skin and bone, make him understand. “So stop pushing us away, okay?”

Molly shivers a little. “Bloody hell, Caleb.”

“What?”

“Since when have you been so fucking perceptive?”

Caleb’s belly shakes with silent laughter. “Since all my friends decided to be secretive and overly cautious around each other.” He pulls back a little, hands still firmly planted on Molly’s shoulders to keep him still. Molly seems to shiver at the edges, like he’s thinking about breaking free, but he stays put and succumbs to Caleb’s scrutiny. “I’ve spent enough time bottling shit up. I know what it does to people. Not just you, but the people around you.” He touches a finger to the corner of Molly’s eye, paper-thin and strangely moist. Molly blinks, and his lashes are feathers against Caleb’s knuckle. “You would tell us if something was really wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“‘Course I would,” Molly whispers. There’s a strange look in his eye that Caleb can’t quite interpret—wild and sad, but crackling at the edges with unfamiliar energy.

“You promise?”

Molly holds his breath a moment. Then, with utmost care, he leans down and kisses him.

Caleb’s breath seizes up in his lungs. Molly’s lips are softer than he expected—soft, and hot as live coals. This close, the smell of cloves and licorice are almost overwhelming in his nose, and Caleb’s fingers turn to claws in Molly’s loose silk shirt, hanging on for dear life.

“Promise,” Molly whispers against his mouth. His eyes are deep crimson, red as blood and glowing from the inside as he watches Caleb closely. Caleb doesn’t know what his expression is doing—his face feels numb, frozen in shock even as warm, delicious heat trickles down his throat to his gullet and curls up there, like a little dragon settling in for a nap.

“Um,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice. “What—what was that for?”

“Well.” Molly licks his lips and steps away, detaching himself from close proximity. “I thought, things are already fucking complicated. Why not multiply that by a billion?” He laughs a little bit hysterically, rubs his mouth with his open hand. “I—I probably shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t—don’t. Apologize. Um.” Caleb swallows, clenches his hand around empty air, shoves them into his pockets instead. His head is spinning. He wants to step closer, wants to kiss him again. Wants to run away. Wants to peel Molly’s shirt off and touch him everywhere. The mixed messages are enough to make his head throb and he covers his face with his hands. “Just. Wow.”

“Fuck,” Molly sighs, almost conversational. “I should—I should leave, shouldn’t I.”

Caleb peeks shyly at him from between his fingers. “Maybe we should just… go back. And eat something. And… and figure out what’s going on with Fjord and everything.”

“Yes. Fjord. Good idea.” Molly fiddles with his cigarillo, drops it, and bends to pick it up again with nervous laughter crackling in the back of his throat. “I’ll just—”

And he flees, leaving Caleb standing alone outside the bathhouse, wondering what the fuck just happened.

* * *

The world is an over-rendered technicolor blur as Caleb walks slowly back to camp. Frumpkin, sensing his—distress? No, that’s not quite the right word—materializes without being asked, curling around his ankles as he walks. The feel of his fur is sleek and sharp at the same time, cut into too-bright pieces, like the scrape of steel wool against his skin. His lips still tingle, and the tips of his fingers. Everything smells of anise.

He feels a moment of strangling fear as he approaches the campsite. He can hear everyone on the other side of the Stormchaser, laughing and bickering gently over breakfast. He can hear _Molly_ , voice like a crystal bell, rising over everything else to cut him to the quick. Caleb puts a hand to his collar and pulls it to his nose. The smell of it is incriminating, acrid like the aftertaste of a homemade cigarillo.

“Miaow,” Frumpkin says plaintively. He puts his paws up on Caleb’s knee and bats at his thigh, demanding to be held. Caleb scoops him off the ground and cradles him to his chest as he walks into camp.

“There he is!” Jester exclaims as soon as she catches sight of him. She’s changed, thank goodness, switching out Molly’s sheer robe for one of Beau’s oversized flannels and a pair of hot pink booty shorts. Caleb’s not convinced that any of it belongs to her, and he can’t help but wonder if she even brought any of her own clothes on this adventure. “Do you want some coffee, Cay-leb, before Yasha drinks it all?”

“Yes please,” Caleb says quietly. He lets Frumpkin crawl up onto his shoulder and make himself into a scarf so that he can accept the mug thrust upon him by Jester’s exuberance. “Cream?”

“Inside,” Yasha says. She’s looking at him a little more intently than necessary, mismatched eyes seeming to sink beneath his skin and prickle there like unwashed wool. “Would you mind putting on another pot while you’re in there?”

“Sure.”

He takes the out for what it is and escapes the breakfast chaos. Even the salt-brisket smell of bacon isn’t as enticing as it was a few minutes ago. He’s too nervous to eat. Probably too nervous for coffee, given the shaking of his hands, but he needs the familiarity of it to settle him. Frumpkin, draped around his neck, begins to purr.

The Stormchaser sinks a little on her wheels as the door opens and shuts again, admitting Yasha. The height and breadth of her blocks out a little of the beaming summer sunshine and Caleb tries not to shiver.

“Coffee’s on,” he says, wondering if he should make his escape now. _There’s no possible way she knows. It’s been less than five minutes._

“So,” Yasha says. Too late. She pulls out one of the folding benches that line the tiny kitchen table and sits down. She still takes up too much space, and Caleb finds himself drifting to the other end of the small kitchen, ostensibly to search for more cups. “You okay?”

Caleb’s hands freeze around a cabinet handle. He doesn’t even know which cabinet it is, honestly, but he clings to it anyway, staring at the wood grain beneath his hands. “What do you mean?”

“Well I’m not a mindreader, but Molly came back into camp with his patented _I just fucked up_ look, and you came back a few minutes later looking like someone hit you over the head so hard you forgot your own name. So I’m assuming he did some really dumb shit, like kiss you.”

“Not a mindreader, huh?” Caleb laughs weakly. “You are sure about that?”

“No. I just know Molly… very well. And you _pretty_ well.” Yasha is smiling at him a little when he turns around and braces his hip against the counter. The lack of active fury and retribution has a profoundly soothing effect on him. “You don't have to tell me. I just wanted to check in. There’s a bit of a tilt-shift happening, isn’t there? And it feels a bit like you’re the fulcrum of it. Or at least near the center.”

“Am I?” Caleb whispers. “I thought—I mean, most of the drama seems to be around…” He twirls his finger in a circle, vaguely in Yasha’s direction.

“Oh, Beau and Jester and I? We’ll figure it out, no big deal. Molly’s a bit sensitive about things at the moment, that’s all.”

“Yeah, he seemed… he _seems_ um, volatile? More than usual, I mean.” He watches as Yasha’s face shutters a bit, eyes turning to the window. “Is something going on?”

“Nothing’s going on for sure,” she says after a bit. “He’ll tell us if he wants to. If something changes.”

“Is it to do with his…” Caleb trails off, tapping his own head with a forefinger. “I mean—sorry, it’s none of my business. You’re right, he’ll say something when he’s ready.”

Yasha nods placidly. “I trust him. He wanders, sometimes, you know. But he never goes far.” She watches Caleb as he pours a fresh cup of coffee and passes it over. “You and Fjord seem… close. Is that why you’re so riled up?”

“Fjord?” Caleb asks, perfectly normally—or tries to, but it comes out more of a squeak. “I’m not sure what you…”

Yasha raises one eyebrow at him, to devastating effect.

“Um.” Caleb busies himself with stirring cream into his coffee, but it’s not a very long-lasting avoidance tactic. “Fjord is… nice.” _And sweet. And brave. And thoughtful. And insanely hot, especially when he wears those little boardshorts that make his thighs look all thick and muscular—_

“I get it,” Yasha is saying, apparently deciding to ignore the fact that Caleb’s brain has gone offline. “You don’t want to upset the status quo. And that’s fine. I felt that way for a long time, until I realized I was apparently the ultimate wet dream of every girl in our group, so I might as well stop being all stoic and removed and get on with things.” She takes a long slurp of her coffee. “I guess I’m saying, you know. If you like him—them—there’s no point in waiting around.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Caleb says in a small voice, still peering determinedly into his coffee.

“It isn’t,” Yasha says. She stands and puts her hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “But take your time, if you need it. Something tells me those idiots out there,” and she jabs her thumb over her shoulder, “are still gonna be waiting around when you’re ready for them.”

She leaves him with his coffee and his thoughts. He can hear Jester’s peals of laughter coming from outside, and part of him longs to join the breakfast festivities. The other part—the louder, more insistent part—wants to stay in this kitchen forever, cradled in the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and the lemon oil Yasha cleans her counters with. He can’t hide forever, he knows; but it’s nice to pretend.

He wonders what it would be like, speaking his mind. For a tantalizing second it almost feels possible. Taking Fjord’s hand and leading him a little ways away from the group. _I’ve liked you for a very long time_ , he would say, and Fjord would stammer and blush, and go quiet beneath Caleb’s kiss. He can see Molly in his mind’s eye, too, a smirk of approval gracing his face. Then the smirk fades, softening into something else.

_Things are already fucking complicated. Why not multiply that by a billion?_

He thinks back, trying to trace his sifting memory through the dredge of years. Molly has always been bright, potent, like the hot flare of a match being struck before it settles into something steadier, longer-burning. He’s living a second life, and he knows it—leaves very little unexplored, seizing opportunities before they flee his grasp.

Caleb has always been a little bit jealous of him. His confidence with his body, his distaste for boundaries and rules. Even his name is a brilliant banner, stitched with a hundred multicolored threads to weave something spectacular. He is loud, and abrasive, and sometimes frustrating, but he has never made Caleb feel uncomfortable or uneasy—not even when he kissed him just now, trembling with some restless energy that Caleb can still feel, fluttering beneath his breastbone.

And Fjord, steady, boyish, carrying shadows in his wake that Caleb never expected. He drinks deeply from his coffee and tries to wrangle the two of them into some strange pattern, something that could fit, somehow _. The_ _fulcrum_. Caleb isn’t sure what to do with that. Are they waiting for him to move first? To _choose_? Gods above and below, he can think of nothing he’d like to do less. He loves them both, in their own ways.

He wishes Yasha hadn’t left so quickly. He could ask Beau, he supposes, though the questions he has would suffocate him with awkwardness. Or he could approach Jester if he could ignore the incessant oversharing. They appear to have some tentative peace between the three of them, and certainly no one is overtly _unhappy_.

There’s nothing for it, he realizes after a few minutes spent chasing his own tail. He only has more questions, piling up more quickly than he can account for, and no answers. Nott has often accused him of trapping himself in his own head, a cycle of ponderous thought that loops on itself like an ever-hungry ouroboros, never sated. Speaking of which, his empty stomach is getting the better of him. It’s time to face the music.

He steps out into the sunshine, coffee mug in hand. Everyone is having a merry old time around what’s left of the fire. Jester and Nott are bent over a map and scrolling through their phones looking for fun places to go that won’t cost them a fortune; their foundling bird is freshly groomed and wrapped in a towel nearby, pecking at the dirt and occasionally cawing out soft little mimicries of their conversation. Molly is draped over Yasha as he paints his fingernails a vibrant shade of highlighter pink. Beau is nearby, too, contorting herself into painful shapes on her yoga mat, and Fjord is scraping the last of breakfast onto a plate. Caleb feels a brief pang of disappointment that’s quickly swallowed up as Fjord approaches him, plate in hand.

“This is for you,” he says with a warm, open smile. Tentatively, Caleb mirrors it.

“Danke, Fjord. I’m starving.”

And because the world is still a little raw at the edges, brighter and louder and more colorful than he remembers, he lets his eyes trail down, down, and back up. Lets himself really _look_ at Fjord, at the careful way he holds his shoulders so as not to loom, the gentle curve of his tummy, the stretch of his chest underneath yesterday’s tee shirt. By the time he reaches Fjord’s face again, the half-orc is flushed a dark green, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Still smiling, though. As Caleb watches, he draws his lower lip into his mouth and nibbles nervously.

“I,” Fjord begins huskily, “I had to fight Beau off, but. Y’know. Worth it.”

“You’re sweet,” Caleb tells him honestly, and delights in his bashful smile. _Is it really this easy?_ he wonders, hardly daring to believe it—but the evidence is right in front of him. “There’s more coffee inside if you want it. I’ll save you a seat by the fire.”

“Oh. All right.” Surprised, still glowing, Fjord brushes lightly past him into the Stormchaser.

“Holy shit, dude,” Beau says when Caleb finds an empty patch of ground beside her yoga mat. She flops out of her pretzel shape and lays back on her elbows, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “What the hell was that, smoothtalker?”

Caleb blushes and stabs at his eggs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Suuuure. And I’m the Baroness of Whitestone.” Beau tosses her head dramatically. “Oh Fjord, you’re just _so_ sweet, and _sooo_ handsome—”

“Shut up, Beau.” He throws a bit of bacon at her as a distraction, and wonder of wonders, it actually works. Sort of. She gives him a two-finger salute and inserts the bacon strip slowly into her mouth, pretending to deepthroat it. Caleb shovels food into his mouth and glances around the campsite. No one else seems to have heard or seen her antics, but Molly’s head is tilted away from him in a way that’s slightly… manufactured.

 _I know what your lips feel like on mine_ , he thinks, and it’s a fucking brilliant, eclipsing thought. Eclipsing until Fjord descends the Stormchaser’s bulk with surprising grace, holding his coffee and humming to himself as he crosses to sit beside Caleb.

The fulcrum, Yasha had said. Caleb looks toward her, combing her fingers patiently through Molly’s hair. She raises her coffee cup slightly, almost a salute, and brings it to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Tightrope by Walk the Moon.
> 
> The entire playlist so far lives [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/racheldburg/playlist/2sTffhTBBv8i6n99wqWLvN). I'm on tumblr @erebones if you want to come say hi! Many many thanks to the people who've taken time to comment or find me on tumblr and leave sweet messages in my inbox, it means the world to me!! You're the reason I keep writing. Keep on being awesome.


	15. it's obvious we naturally align

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly makes a proposition. Yasha gives a revelation. Caleb has a little death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for.... drum roll please... sexual content of the masturbatory variety! Also, more seriously, for night terrors/a panic attack in the flashback.

_3 years prior. Molly._

The hardest part was the waiting. Molly was used to it, used to sitting around in waiting rooms and lying in hospital beds with the incessant _beep beep beep_ of sundry machinery in his ears, but this waiting was of a different kind. He could wait when it was his own life hanging by a thread—it was all he had, after all, and once that string snapped… well, it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. This required infinitely more patience.

He stared at the ceiling and counted backward from one hundred. In the dark of the Widogast’s guest room, time stretched and slowed like raindrops coalescing on a screen door. Clinging to their perch until finally, finally, the weight became too much and they snapped, trailing to the ground or flung outward by the force of the rattling wind.

He had almost reached single digits when the screaming started up again. Moving with the ease of much practice, Molly flung back the covers and stood. At the foot on the couch, Nott began to uncurl from her little ball with a groan, but Molly patted her shoulder to send her back to sleep.

The door to Caleb’s room was ajar. He pushed inside with a hand to the lightswitch, taking stock. The writhing shape in the bed was expected, as were the rattling windows, shaking in their frames with the force of Caleb’s anguish. The hum of pent-up magic buzzed in Molly’s sinuses uncomfortably, but he was used to that, too. The little pricks of pain at his throat and chest and arm… those were new.

“Caleb,” he said loudly, though hardly loud enough to be heard over the panicked sobs coming from the bed, “I’m going to turn the lights on, now.”

And he did. _Flick_ went the switch, and the room was flooded with a muted golden glow. Almost immediately the cries began to subside, softening and giving way to gasps and shivering. Molly moved toward the bed with a measured pace.

“Caleb,” he said, more softly this time, “it’s me. It’s Molly.”

The shape in the bed succumbed with a frantic wheeze. In fits and starts, Caleb pushed free of the covers and sat up, sucking in great lungfuls of air as he wiped his face with his sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped as Molly touched his shoulder. He leaned into the contact readily, so Molly drew him in against his chest, petting sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shhhh. Hush yourself, my darling, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

Eventually the shivering subsided. Caleb blew his nose with the provided tissue and leaned hard against Molly’s chest. “What’s that,” he sighed at last, voice torn to shreds from screaming. “Two? Three?”

“Just two.” Molly tucked a loose strand of hair behind Caleb’s ear. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Caleb picked at the seam of his bedspread. “I don’t want to…” His voice shuddered and dropped with shame. “If I have another fit and… and wet the bed again, I don’t—”

“Shhh. It’s okay. I’ve had much worse.” He pressed his nose to Caleb’s dewy brow. “Listen. The amount of times I’ve woken up to a sick kid throwing up on me? A little urine is nothing. And it might help you sleep better if I stayed. Or I can go and get Nott…”

“No,” Caleb said immediately, seizing onto Molly’s forearm. Molly hissed in pain before he could catch himself and Caleb released him. “What…? Molly, you’re bleeding!”

“It’s all right,” Molly said tiredly. “It happens sometimes.”

In the buttery glow of Caleb’s star-shaped fairy lights, Molly watched him peel back the blood-spotted sleeve of his sleep shirt. There, near his wrist, was a little smear of blood underneath an intricate tattoo of a red eye, stylistically strange and yet lifelike. It looked like it was crying blood. Caleb touched his thumb to the spot and dabbed it away.

“Did you…” Caleb began, and trailed off, like he was afraid to even give the idea voice.

“No, I didn’t do it to myself. They just… bleed, sometimes.” Molly pulled his loose collar aside so Caleb could see the same spot on the side of his neck. “Usually when I’m helping someone.”

“What do you mean? Like magic?”

“I mean, I guess so. Maybe.” Molly tugged his sleeve back down. “Sometimes, especially when there’s magic nearby, I can kind of… put a little extra effort into something. I bleed a little, but it’s not so bad.” He carefully didn’t mention the time he’d gotten the call in the middle of the night about Bo. Strung out on a highway somewhere, leg crushed from skidding his motorcycle into a guard rail in the rain. Molly almost bled himself dry keeping Bo’s heart beating, but it was worth it. Difficult to explain to the medics when they arrived. But worth it.

“That sounds… horrible,” Caleb whispered. He was staring at the blood smeared on his finger, drying quickly. Molly grabbed another tissue from the box and wiped it clean with a bit of spit. “It sounds… sorry, but it sounds like something the Empire wouldn’t be too fond of.”

“You’re probably right,” Molly said, with more lightness than he felt. He gave Caleb a friendly nudge in the ribs. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

Caleb’s face darkened. “No. Absolutely not.” He held Molly’s wrist a moment more, then released him with a sigh. “You’ll tell me if anything… strange happens with them? Strang _er_?”

“Swear it on my life.” Molly laid a gentle hand against his back. “You’re soaked with sweat, dear heart. Shall we get you changed at least?”

Caleb sighed. “All right.”

Moving with the stiff hesitancy of an old man, Caleb managed to get himself up and into clean pajamas by the time Molly had exchanged the sweat-soaked sheets for fresh. The room still smelled a bit dank, so Molly opened the window a crack to admit a breath cool autumn air. When he turned, Caleb had wriggled back into the sheets, a little further over than usual. He laid on his side and put a thin, questing hand on the empty space beside him.

“If… if you really want,” he whispered.

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

Molly caught the light switch on his way over, and climbed into bed with only the starlight to illuminate his way. He laid flat on his back, taking great care with his horns, and after a moment or two of shuffling Caleb was comfortably ensconced against his side, sharp cheek to Molly’s breastbone.

“Do you still not remember anything?” Caleb said after a little while. His hand had found its way to the center of Molly’s chest and a little south, and the sparrow’s weight of it was a comfort against the rise and fall of Molly’s diaphragm. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“You can ask me anything you like, Caleb. And… no. No, I don’t remember a blessed thing.” It was the truth, and Molly didn’t mind owning it. He hadn’t been alive for very long, in this head, this body, but he liked who he was. The file the hospital had compiled belonged to another person. A name he knew but didn’t connect to. The name he had now was one he chose for himself. It was the one written on his adoption papers, kept in a locked filing cabinet in Gustav’s house. It was the name his friends knew him by, called him by, loved him by. He didn’t want any other.

“Do you wish you did?” Caleb asked sleepily. His breath was very slow, his heartbeat thudding tidal against Molly’s ribcage. So frail and fragile, but so full of life. It made the blood sing in Molly’s veins in ways he couldn’t describe.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t wish that. I don’t know much about him—the person I was. But I know enough. And I much prefer being Mollymauk Tealeaf, thank you very much.”

There came another silence, long enough that Molly thought he’d fallen asleep. Then Caleb said, very quietly, “I prefer Mollymauk Tealeaf, too.”

Molly fell asleep smiling. There were no more dreams that night.

* * *

_Present day._

“...and that’s pretty much the whole story,” Fjord finishes, fingers clasped nervously around the circumference of his coffee cup. He taps his nails against the ceramic and glances around the circle. “Uh… does that clarify anything?”

“It clarifies plenty,” Beau snaps. She jabs her finger at him and he flinches back, in spite of the handful of yards between them. “You almost fuckin’ _died_ and you didn’t think any of us would want to know? What the fuck, Fjord?”

“What the fuck, Fjord?” echoes a slightly rougher mimic of Beau’s voice. Beau drops her hand and her frown in surprise and turns.

“Bloody hell, is my voice really that deep?”

“Stop swearing in front of her!” With a petulant wrinkle affixed to her brow, Jester covers the sides of the kenku’s head, no doubt where she imagines its ears might be. “She’s just a little kid.”

“She’s a wild animal, Jess,” Molly sighs. “Either way, she’ll survive. I’m more worried about Fjord’s little stunt yesterday.”

Fjord glances across the firepit to Caleb, expression inscrutable. Caleb gives him a one-armed shrug and Fjord sighs. “It was right after Caleb… well. Right after he dropped out of school. Um. My plan was to do one more job and then drive up to Blumenthal to see him with the rest of you, but then that went to shit. And I didn’t want to, y’know. Take anyone’s attention away from him. He needed it more.”

Caleb’s face heats at the suddenly shift in attention. “I wish you’d said something,” he murmurs. “We could have been convalescents together. Drive Molly absolutely mad.”

“Ugh,” Molly says, with exaggerated distaste. “A horrible thought. But no, in all seriousness… Fjord, you idiot.” He’s trying to be exasperated, but it comes out fond instead, and Fjord ducks his head against the scrutiny. “We would have been happy to support you. Of course we would.”

Beau blows out an enormous sigh. “Okay cool. Anyone else have any personal traumas they’ve been keeping from the group? Hands up.”

Nott giggles nervously. It’s almost excruciatingly loud in the silence. No one raises their hand, though Caleb notices Molly knotting his fingers together tightly in his lap. He narrows his eyes.

“Okay cool. Glad that’s taken care of,” Beau says, a little too quickly. “Hey so we wanna keep talking about Fjord? Figure out what the f—what the hell, dammit, sorry Jester—”

“Spit it out, Beauregard,” Molly says lazily.

She flips him the bird. “Fuck you, Molly.”

“Fuck you too, Beau.” He grins and sticks his pierced tongue out at her.

“Gross. Anyway. Fjord.” She leans over Nott to glare right at him. “What was the thing with the sword? Before Caleb twiddled his fingers and made everything go dark?”

Caleb coughs. “That wasn’t me.”

“What?”

He fidgets, burying his fingers in Frumpkin’s ruff. Frumpkin purrs more loudly and twists onto his back, sprawled like some kind of physics-defying substance over his knees. “I wasn’t the one who dispelled that… whatever it was. Portal. Thing.” He glances to one side, waiting just a moment to be sure. A pair of mismatched eyes meet his, calm as a mist-cloaked lake. “It was Yasha.”

Complete silence covers the campsite for exactly two seconds. And then all hell breaks loose.

“What the _fuck_?”

“ _Yasha_?”

“You can do magic? Since when have you been able to do magic!”

“Wait a minute, that was _you_ —”

The chaos blends together, everyone tripping over themselves, and Frumpkin bolts upright, ears twitching in protest. Caleb gathers him to his chest and makes an apologetic grimace in Yasha’s direction. She gives a tiny shrug.

“Ahem!” Fjord says loudly, cutting through the noise like a knife. “Maybe if everyone could quiet down for five seconds she could explain?” He turns to Yasha as the others settle down; everyone but Molly, who doesn’t seem at all surprised. “Is it true, Yash? You dispelled the… portal thing?”

“Yes.” Yasha glances about the group and lifts a hand to touch the silver chain that hangs around her neck. It’s sort of always been there, Caleb realizes, reaching back into his memory—but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the charm attached. She pulls it free of her shirt as they watch, exposing the tiny medallion hanging there: a silver hoop with crossed lightning bolts connecting either side in a jagged X shape. “I, um. I haven’t always been able to do things, but when Caleb…” She trails off and looks to him, waiting for a nod of approval before continuing. “When we were posted up with the Widogasts, Caleb would sometimes have… fits. So Molly and I learned a few tricks to help him. For me it was dispelling the excess magic that sometimes needed to come out. It isn’t too hard to learn, if you have the right background.”

“Your medallion,” Beau says slowly, peering at it once Yasha has indicated her permission. “I’ve seen you wear it before, but… I didn’t realize it was magic.”

“It’s not,” Yasha says simply. “Not really. It’s just a… symbol. Of my allegiance.”

“To…?”

“Kord. The Stormlord.” She lets the necklace drop again, this time glinting against her chest in the gap of her shirt plackets. There’s a tattoo of a similar shape inked into the center of her chest, Caleb realizes, right over her sternum. He never really noticed before—he doesn’t exactly make a habit of staring at his friends’ chests. “He’s not worshipped in the Empire much, so. I don’t really talk about it.”

“More of a Xhorhassian thing, right?” Caleb prods gently.

“He is more often followed in the east, yes.” Yasha’s fingers twine around the delicate chain as she stares into the cold fire pit. “I don’t talk about it much, but he… he helped me out of a dark place. I owe him a lot. And,” she adds with a shrug, “there are perks.”

“Like dispelling magic,” Caleb murmurs. “I should probably learn that trick now that I am…” He wiggles his fingers, letting a single spark conjure itself to slip along his knuckles, fey-bright, and blink out again.

“Are you… better, then?” Nott inquires, voice tremulous and uncertain. “I mean, you were ill for so long, and then…”

“I don’t know,” Caleb says, a little too quickly to be considered polite. “I haven’t… _tried_ to do magic in a very long while. It feels kind of rusty, you know? And I don’t really _need_ to use it, most of the time.” He gnaws briefly on his lower lip, deep in thought. Deep enough to admit, perhaps inadvisably, “But it is nice to know I still have some things to hand, should I need them.”

“Those dancin’ lights of yours were very helpful,” Fjord agrees. He rubs the furrow that’s beginning to develop between his eyebrows. “Yasha, I guess I should thank you, then. I… I didn’t realize.”

“No thanks necessary.” Yasha tucks the Stormlord’s token away again and holds the plackets of her shirt closed over it. Caleb can just make out the little stick-and-poke lightning bolt inked onto the inside of her middle finger. He remembers Jester doing it years ago, but now the jagged symbol makes more sense. “If it comes for you again, we’ll be ready.”

A collective shiver crawls its way around the circle. “Do you think it will?” Jester asks, small-voiced. “Come for Fjord again, I mean.”

“It came for you in the lake, too, didn’t it,” Molly says, lifting his head. He’d been contemplating something between his knees for a while where he crouched like a gargoyle, hands folded together near the ground as counterweight, but now his eyes are clear and brilliant scarlet as they pin Fjord down across the fire pit. “That’s what it was, that put a thrall on us.”

“Except for Caleb,” Nott adds. “Right? You were the only one who was in your right mind, both times.”

“And yourself,” Caleb blusters. “And Yasha.”

“The first time I just wasn’t fuckin’ paying attention,” Nott says with a shrug. “And the second time I fuckin’ _ran_ as soon as my gut started to feel all tingly and weird. Never steered me wrong before. And hey!” She stabs a finger at Caleb. “Now that you’re doing magic again, can you see what happened to that sword Fjord was holding?”

“I… I can try. It will take a little time, maybe ten minutes.” Caleb looks to Fjord. “That is, if you are all right with it.”

Fjord has looked a bit lost for most of the conversation, but Caleb’s query seems to give him a direction to latch onto. “Yeah, of course. It… it would make _me_ feel better, certainly. I don’t rightly know where it went. Barely remember that I was holding a sword, to be honest.”

Caleb gets up on his knees and shuffles across the dirt to kneel in front of Fjord. “Do you remember the jewel?”

“The what?”

“The round glass… ball. It was yellow, almost like amber, very nearly perfectly round with a wedge cut out of it. Like a cantaloupe.” Caleb cups his hands together in front of him, approximating the size and shape. “You found it in the little chamber beyond the main lab.”

Fjord shakes his head, golden eyes unfocused into the middle distance. “I… I think so. I remember seeing it. Feeling like it… like it meant something. Like it was calling to me.”

Caleb glances around the circle. “Do you also remember shoving it into your stomach?”

“He did _what_?” Beau squawks. “Is that what was going on in there? I couldn’t see, the space was so small and you were right in the way—”

“Yes, that is what happened. It was. Alarming.” Caleb reaches out and places his hands on Fjord’s chest, right over the logo for the Menagerie Coast University rowing club. The heat of him bleeds through his shirt easily, and Fjord ducks his head. “Luckily for you there has to be have been magic involved, so I will be able to find out what sort of magic and maybe, if we are _very_ lucky, how to get it out of you again.” And he shuts his eyes and concentrates.

Time passes. He’s tangentially aware of his friends, their murmured conversation back and forth. The steady metronome of Fjord’s heartbeat. The warmth. The breath. Influx, deep and smelling faintly of ash and sun-baked earth; and exhale, petrichor and salt. He lets his forebrain fade away, sinking into murk, and lets his consciousness expand through his hands and into Fjord’s body.

There is something there. Something far away. A seed, small and golden and blinking in the light.

_P O T E N T I A L_

Caleb withdraws suddenly, with a choked-off gasp. He snatches his hands away from Fjord’s chest like he’s been burned.

“What is it?” Fjord asks, wide-eyed. He trembles where he sits, like he wants to reach for Caleb but is afraid to. “What did you find?”

“I don’t know.” Caleb looks at the palms of his hands. They’re clean and unblemished, in spite of the insistent tingle of the spell still fading from his fingertips. “I thought I heard a voice, but… that can’t be.”

“A voice?” Nott asks. “What kind of voice?”

Caleb reaches for it, but the memory is already slipping from his grasp. It terrifies him for a moment—he doesn’t forget anything, _ever_ —but then it’s gone, and the tension built inside his ribcage crumbles like matchsticks before a stiff breeze. “I don’t know,” he says again. He rubs his face with his hands and shakes it off. “Sorry. I think I’m still getting used to doing magic again, it didn’t really… take.”

“That’s all right.” Fjord is still watching him closely, but he reaches out without fear, clasping Caleb gently on the shoulder. “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

There’s a collective sigh as the tension breaks, and Caleb sits back on his bum again, hands folded carefully between his knees.

“Well,” Molly says briskly, “that was fun, but I’m for a shower, I think.” He gets up and makes a show of dusting himself off. “Jester, darling, I think we’re due for a trip into town.”

Jester blinks innocently at him. “What do you mean? Do you need to pick up some toiletries, Mollyyy?” She leans in and stage-whispers, “Did you forget to pack condoms or something?”

“Jesterrr, gross,” Beau complains.

The bird in Jester’s lap ruffles its feathers and says, precisely in Beau’s disgusted tones, “Gross!”

“Lovely, now you’re teaching a bird about sex,” Molly says, rolling his eyes.

“Sex ed is very important,” Jester says stiffly. “And her name is Kiri.”

“Right. Well _Kiri_ needs to be taken to people who know how to take care of her.” Molly gives her a look. “Okay?”

Jester wrinkles her nose in protest, but nods. “Fiiiine. But I am going to miss her very much.”

“Sweet!” Beau claps her hands together. “So we’re going into town? Can we stop somewhere and get like burgers or something? I’m starving, breakfast was a _million_ years ago.”

“We literally just ate, Beau,” Fjord sighs, but he pushes himself to his feet and reaches down to aid Caleb. “And I think I’ll join you with that shower, Molls. Not—not like _in_ the same shower—”

He immediately begins to blush and bluster, but it’s too late—Jester is already cackling with glee.

“You said it, you said it!” she crows, as Kiri flaps her wings, startled by the outburst.

Caleb rolls his eyes. “I will _also_ join you,” he says firmly, without prevarication, and grins at the choked sound Fjord makes. “Don’t worry, Fjord, I’m blind as a bat without my glasses. You’re safe from me.”

“You two are too much,” Molly huffs. “I will, however, accept either one of you that cares to join me. I scoped it out earlier, there’s one handicapped shower stall that should fit all three of us.”

He flounces away at last, snickering, and Fjord buries his face in his hands. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, low enough that Caleb’s not sure he’s meant to hear. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or intrigued.”

“You should take him up on it,” Jester is saying matter-of-factly. She doesn’t seem to have heard Fjord’s quiet admission, thank goodness—she would never let him live it down. “Molly has, like, the _nicest_ dick I have ever seen. And also in general he’s just very good-looking under there.” She waggles her eyebrows and covers Kiris’ “ears” belatedly. “You should see how far down his tattoos go, they are _very_ well done.”

“Jess, leave off,” Yasha says fondly. “You’re making them blush.”

“That’s why it’s fun!” Jester declaims, but she picks herself and Kiri up and dusts off the bum of her tiny pink shorts. “I showered last night but I’m gonna put on a pretty dress to go into town. Does anyone want tooooo help me maybe? I can never reach the buttons in the back.”

A brief game of chicken ensues, wherein Beau and Yasha make direct unblinking eye contact for a few seconds. Whatever the consensus is, Caleb isn’t privy to it, because he turns his attention back to Fjord and nudges him in the ribs.

“Hey. You wanna catch up to Molly, or give him a good head start?”

Fjord lets out an enormous, billowing sigh and pulls his shirt up over his face, which is both an adorable gesture and has the added bonus of exposing his lower belly: deep green, lightly furred, and a little bit soft where it pokes over his belt buckle. “I don’t think I’m ready for that stage in our relationship,” he mumbles against his hands, and Caleb dissolves into gales of laughter.

“That’s fair. Come on, Beau’s right, it feels like ages since breakfast.”

They gather their toiletries and towels in companionable silence and stroll down to the bathhouse together. There’s still a bit of strange, jittery tension between them—Caleb isn’t sure whether it’s from the failed attempt at detect magic or Molly’s playful offer. Either way, the strain dissolves a bit when they arrive and find Molly already showered and wrapped in a fluffy towel, leaning close to the mirror as he massages some nice-smelling lotion into his skin.

“Slowpokes,” Molly rebuffs with a grin. “Guess you missed seeing my magical dick.”

Fjord snorts and pretends to grab for his towel—shocked, Molly barely sidesteps him and then just stands there, gaping at him in the mirror. “Don’t tempt me, Tealeaf,” Fjord says, and saunters down to the showers.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Molly whispers, wide-eyed in the glass.

“Not a damned thing.” Caleb’s eyes catch on the purple expanse of his back, littered with scars beneath a gorgeous, detailed tattoo of a carnival-esque sun and moon shining between his shoulder blades. A single ray of light follows the curve of his spine down, down beneath the towel and disappears. He’s seen snatches of it before, as it was in progress, but never the entire piece.

“Like what you see?” Molly inquires. It should sound flirtatious and _come hither_ , but Molly’s voice is oddly soft, echoing sincerely against the tile. Fjord hasn’t started up the shower yet, Caleb realizes.

“I’ve just never seen the full thing before.” Caleb reaches out, glancing in the mirror for permission and, when he receives a nod, places a hand on Molly’s back. Traces the smiling lips of the sun and the coy profile of the crescent moon. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Molly slowly replaces the screwtop on his moisturizer and pokes around in his toiletry bag a bit before pulling out a slim black tube. He doesn’t seem to mind Caleb just standing there, admiring the heat and moisture of his skin as Molly leans against the porcelain sink and carefully applies a razor-sharp line of black to each eyelid. Molly’s tail flicks in time with the flick of the mascara brush, grazing Caleb’s ankle lightly. “There. How’s that?”

Molly turns his head this way and that, examining himself closely. The fluorescent lighting in here is godawful, but he still somehow manages to look otherworldly. Like a painting. Then he grins and sticks his tongue out, and the illusion shatters. “Go shower, Widogast. Before the girls come looking for us.”

“Right.” Caleb swallows, throat clicking. “Right.” He turns away from Molly’s soft look and makes for the showers. One of them starts up as he passes, and he bites back a smile. _Listening in, Fjord?_

It’s a shockingly intimate thought. Knowing that he could have kissed Molly just now, and Fjord would have heard, would have known that _Caleb_ knew he heard—

He looks down at himself in the middle of stripping down and grimaces. His briefs are a _little_ too snug for comfort, but there’s no way he can bring himself off in a tiny grimy stall with Fjord right next door, also naked, water streaming down his…

“Hey Caleb?” Fjord says suddenly over the steaming hiss of water against the cement floor. Caleb jumps in spite of himself, barely catching himself against the semi-reflective metal wall. “I forgot to pack shampoo, d’you have any I can borrow?”

Caleb swallows a few times, just to make sure, and aims for mockingly jovial. “You sure you want to ruin your perfect hair with my shitty off-brand Suave?”

There’s a moment of quiet. “There’s such a thing as _off_ -brand Suave?”

“I’m a poor grad student, cut me a break.” His cheeks are still warm but he’s feeling more in control of himself as he wriggles out of the rest of his clothes and hits the water. “Give me your hand and I’ll pass it over. I’ll need it back though.”

Fjord’s hand appears at the shitty plastic curtain in front of the stall and Caleb hands the bottle over. “Thanks. I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time,” Caleb says thickly, and shoves his face under the needle-like spray to try and quench his idiotic, poorly-timed libido.

He’s all right for a bit. The grime of the mines and sleeping on the ground is scoured away beneath the water, leaving him pink and tingling even before he gets a hand around his bar of soap. It’s something Jester gifted him, pale brown and innocent looking, but when he lifts it to his nose he smells bright citrus and soft vanillin. Against his skin there’s a slight roughness that prickles his nerves awake. He drags it down his chest and belly, working up a lather, and exhales silently into the steam.

“Here,” Fjord says suddenly, startling him. The shampoo bottle appears overhead where the stall wall ends, and Caleb nearly drops it, fingers gone useless at the rough tone of Fjord’s voice. He sounds like he’s been coughing, or singing loudly in the car. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Caleb says, and holds his breath.

He takes his time, ears pricked for the slightest sound. His own hands move smoothly over his body in slow, hypnotic swirls, carrying the lather down his arms, into his bellybutton, working through the hair that trails thickly southward.

From next door comes of the softest gasp. It could be nothing, probably _is_ nothing, but Caleb’s skin prickles anyway, heart thudding against his ribs and arousal pooling between his legs. He reaches down and works a soapy hand along his length, a little embarrassed at how quickly he grew hard. He thumbs the head lightly, pulling back the foreskin to wash underneath. His toes, bare and brown with sun, curl against the grout.

_Inhale. Exhale._

“Nnh.”

Caleb quivers, biting his lip savagely to keep quiet. _It’s nothing_ , he tells himself, furious, desperate to corral his brain back onto the tracks. _He’s just… humming to himself. He sings in the shower sometimes. Molly’s told you before._

Fucking hell, is Molly still here? The flimsy screen door makes a terrible screech every time it opens and bangs shut, but he can’t remember for the life of him if he’s heard it since he and Fjord entered the bathhouse. Down between his legs, his grip firms, and he lets himself release a shuddering breath that’s very nearly silent under the water. He shifts his feet a little wider apart and soaps again, reaching back.

“Ah…”

Caleb’s fingers stutter at the sound, and the echoing creak of the metal wall as if someone has leaned hard against it. He breaths steam and exhales heat as he puts his back to the spray to let the water rinse him down. The shampoo bottle sits on the little shower bench, almost accusatory. He washes his hands thoroughly and pools a little into his hands before sinking them into his hair.

Embarrassment has dulled his erection a bit, and he busies himself with massaging his scalp until it’s rough and tingling from the treatment. The water beats against the back of his head, his nape, his ears, cloaking everything in the hiss of falling water.

_Water beading on Fjord’s skin, dappling his cheeks. His strong arm laying against his soft, thick belly, blunt nails scratching through the hair there, drawing pale lines in the flesh of his thighs. Caleb sinks to his knees, fingers pale and spindly against Fjord’s verdant skin. He leans forward, mouth already open. The taste of salt and heavy, warm weight against his tongue._

The sound of gently slapping skin drags him out of the fantasy with a sharp tug, like a string yanking from his lower belly. Even the water lashing hard against the tile floor isn’t enough to cover the sounds of Fjord jerking himself off.

The harsh unmistakability of it hits Caleb like a freight train. His hand flies in tandem, and it sounds loud in his own ears, but so are the short, aborted huffs of breath punching in and out of Fjord’s chest on the other side of the wall. Caleb flings out a hand and braces it against cold, smooth metal. In his mind, Fjord is doing the same—he squeezes his eyes and his hand shut and gapes, breathless, as he comes hard all over the tile.

The water is forgiving. It rinses away the evidence almost immediately, and Caleb is left woozy and trembling in the aftermath. Knees weak, tongue thick in his mouth, he lowers himself to the shower bench and just sits there, letting the water drizzle against his side. In the next stall over, there is silence.

Then Fjord’s shower turns off. Caleb grinds his teeth together, waiting for the callout, but all he hears is the rough scrape of a towel and Fjord whistling quietly between his teeth. The jumble of toiletries returned to their case, and the finality of a zipper being shut.

“Hey Caleb,” Fjord says suddenly. His voice is not as rough as before, but it’s deeper somehow, smooth as warm honey. “Thanks.”

Caleb swallows around the knot in his throat. “For—for what?”

“The shampoo.” There’s a brief, knowing pause. “Seriously, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh.” Caleb gives a weak chuckle. He still can’t feel his toes. “Sure. Anytime.”

_Anytime._

“I’ll remember that,” Fjord says after a bit. His voice is too low and meaningful to be referring to shampoo by any stretch of the imagination. There’s the rustle of plastic, and then footsteps as Fjord traipses back to the sinks. “Hey Molls. Didn’t realize you were still here.”

Caleb drops his face into his hands as hot, prickly embarrassment suffuses him. Was the sound of running water enough to drown out what just transpired?

“Beauty like this doesn’t just happen, Fjord. You have to work for it.” Molly’s voice echoes slightly against the tile walls and floor, distorting it; Caleb can’t read his tone of voice. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not,” Fjord says, unbothered by Molly’s brusqueness. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

Molly scoffs audibly over the sound of tap water lashing against porcelain. “Sweet-talker. Get on with you, save it for someone who’ll appreciate it more.”

Dry footsteps drag across the floor and Caleb hears the rusty scream and slam of the door as Molly departs. The sink shuts off and Fjord hums to himself a little before zipping up his toiletry bag and following. Caleb reaches for his towel and wraps it around himself as tightly as he can manage, leaning back against the shower stall with the last lingering throbs of arousal bleeding out of him in slow percussive waves.

_What the fuck are you doing, Widogast… what actual the fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: born again teen by lucius.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who takes time to comment, it really makes the writing easy breezy!! <3


	16. i can't wait til we're afraid of nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha matchmakes. Caleb is a sneaky spy. Kiri says fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another episode of Family Drama!! I hope you enjoy, I had a ton of fun writing this one. <3

_Three years prior. Fjord._

It took him a while to pick up a pen.

He didn’t mean for the distance to grow between them—the emotional distance, that is. The physical distance was a bit insurmountable, particularly now, still recovering from the last bout of pneumonia. Sometimes it felt like he was never going to be free of it. The ocean’s frigid grasp, the dark dreams, thrashing awake with the taste of salt on his lips and the icy slosh of waves in his lungs. But he was here, now, going through the motions of daily life, and eventually he brought himself round to sit at the desk and just do it.

 _Dear Caleb,_ he began, and then immediately fizzled. The greeting felt so bland. Uninspired.

“You’re not a fainting flower,” he told himself, staring at the blank page. “So get on with it.”

He wavered a bit more, then picked up his phone for inspiration. The last message was from Jester, yesterday.

**Jester: _[i finally got him to shower twice in the same week! progress!!]_**

**Jester: _[his doctor says he’s improving already. i think it’s because of meee. I’m just such a good healer fjord u know this about me]_**

**Jester: _[also molly helped him shave and his face was so thin under there, i’m really scared for him sometimes.]_**

Fjord turned the screen off and stared at his reflection a moment in the black. Dark hollows sagged beneath his eyes; his cheekbones were sharp and fringed with two-day-old stubble. He lifted a hand to his face and prodded the puffy, swollen shape of his underbite. He’d let his teeth go a little too long and had spent almost an hour with the rasp yesterday.

 _Dear Caleb_ , still printed on the page in awkward, blocky letters. Hopefully Caleb didn’t mind his childish handwriting, made even worse by his shaking hand. “Stop it,” he said aloud, glaring at his fingers around the pen. They didn’t seem inclined to obey.

 _Dear Caleb,_ he wrote anyway,

_This is kind of a silly idea but I know you love to read so I thought I would write longhand to you. Also I don’t have internet yet in the new apartment so I can’t just email you. Jester says you’re doing better. That’s really great. I wish I was there to see it. We could practice arm wrestling._

_I’ve been a little bit sick myself. Nothing serious, but it makes it hard to keep steady work. I’ve mostly been picking up side jobs at the docks and trying to save up. Maybe I can come visit in the spring._

_Please take care of yourself. I don’t know the whole story and I don’t need to, but I wanted to say that it’s okay to need some time. I used to feel like I was rushing around all the time, trying to save money and apply to schools and get the job of my dreams. I still haven’t received a single acceptance letter. But honestly? I don’t mind. I have work. I have friends here, or at least acquaintances, and it’s enough of a support system to get by. Part of me still sees myself going to school, studying marine life instead of hunting it, but I feel kind of stable for the first time in my life, and that’s a good feeling._

_It’s taken me awhile to feel this way. Maybe it’s complacency, but I’m tired of running. Searching. Always looking for the next thing, the next grand achievement I can pin to my wall. Am I getting old? Or lazy? Or maybe it’s just that I’ve found other things I want to focus on. More important things. Like my friends._

_It’s shit to be so far away from all of you, but I know it’s only temporary. I’m sure I’ll hardly recognize you by the time I see you again. You’ll be so strong and bright. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Caleb. I’ve always looked up to you. I’m sure you know it, but I wanted to say it out loud (in writing) in case you forgot. Sometimes, when I’m having a difficult run of it, I remember how we met. You rescuing me from those jerks when we were just kids. I know you like to pretend you’re not brave, but you are. I’ll always admire you for that._

_So anyway, don’t rush. Heal. Rest. Let Jester dote on you, let Nott groom you incessantly, let Molly make you laugh (he’s good at that). Let Yasha carry you around the house like a little prince. It’s good for her to feel needed. It’s good to let yourself need. Lean on your friends, Cay. That’s why we’re here. _

_I’m thinking of you every day. I’ll just remember that you exist out there in the world, and I look up at the sky and I send out a smile. I’m doing it right now. So look out the window and maybe you’ll catch it on the way over._

_Your friend,_

_Fjord_

His chest was aching by the time he finished. He set the pen down and shoved his cold hands under his armpits to warm them, looking out through the tiny window at a slice of blustery autumn sky. Though his mouth was sore and throbbing, he thought of Caleb—bright, inquisitive, sometimes painfully shy but always kind, and so, so full of life—and smiled.

* * *

_Present day._

When Caleb finally emerges from the bathhouse, the sun is high in the sky and his belly is rumbling for lunch. He’s almost afraid of Fjord, terrified somehow that even basic eye contact will give him away, but he’s in luck; Fjord is occupied with Beau, the two of them tag-teaming Jester’s last gamble to keep Kiri. After some tearful attempts at bargaining, the group decides to drive into town to drop Kiri off at the shelter and find a diner to get some grub.

“You should not have named her,” Caleb says gently, making room in the back of Fjord’s truck for a few of them to lie down comfortably. Riding freestyle in pickup truck beds isn’t strictly legal, but out in the sticks like this they should be able to get away with it.

“I knowwww.” Jester sighs heavily and boosts the kenku in her arms. Kiri clacks her beak silently and nuzzles into Jester’s neck. More tears spring up. “She’s just so sweet!”

“We can’t keep her, Jess.” He pats the truck bed and helps boost Jester and the bird up onto the blankets. “She needs to be raised by her parents. Or at least someone who knows how to take care of wild animals.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Jester mutters. She pets the silky-soft top of Kiri’s head, smiling tearfully as the kenku echoes her faithfully. _I know I know I know._

Caleb settles in the truck bed next to her and snaps his fingers. Frumpkin steps sleekly into existence and perches on Caleb’s knee, eyes and ears pricked forward curiously to the kenku. The bird stares back, enthralled, and Caleb softens a little. “Kiri,” he says, and he swears the kenku’s eyes glimmer with recognition. “This is Frumpkin. Say hello.”

“Say hello,” the bird echoes obediently.

“Damn, that’s eerie.” Molly stands near the hitch, tapping his neon-pink nails against the hatch. He’s dressed up a little for going into town: a pale pink pinstripe shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons is tucked into slim grey shorts, and his hair has been smoothed into loose, billowing curls that smell faintly of coconut. Caleb’s belly swoops a little at the thought of sitting close to him, but settles when he says, with forced casualness, “I think I’ll ride up front, actually. Beau, you getting in?”

“Fuck yeah, dude.” She boosts herself up using his shoulder, to his consternation, and slithers down onto the blankets on her stomach. “Don’t poo on me, Kiri, okay?”

Kiri affixes Beau with one beady black eye, head cocked askance. Then the long black beak opens and Jester’s voice trips out, clear as anything: “Go fuck yourself!”

There’s a beat of communal shocked silence, and then Molly bursts into laughter as Jester claps excitedly. “It worked! It worked! I spent _all morning_ teaching her how to do that!”

“You’re a fuckin’ genius, babe,” Beau says, sounding a bit conflicted at the insult.

“Okay, kids, everybody saddle up.” Fjord comes around the back and closes the hatch with a definitive _slam_. “I swear to god, Jester, you keep a hold of that bird. I ain’t responsible for what happens if it flies out when we’re goin’ down the road at sixty miles an hour.”

“Sixty seems… a little ostentatious,” Caleb says nervously.

Molly gives Fjord a friendly pat—the angle makes it difficult to see where his hand landed, but the way Fjord flinches makes Caleb think it was somewhere south of his belt—and says, saccharine as a bowl full of sugar, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he keeps it to a reasonable fifty-nine.”

Caleb rolls his eyes and wriggles down until he’s flat on his back in the truck bed. Another snap of his fingers and Frumpkin blinks away. “Sorry buddy,” he mumbles in the general direction of Frumpkin’s dimension. “You’ll thank me later.”

The trip into town, laying on his back with the wind rushing past, helps clear Caleb’s head, and by the time they roll up at the animal clinic he’s feeling buoyant and confident enough to hop out of the truck unaided and pat Fjord’s cheek in thanks. “You did good,” he says approvingly, “didn’t even get pulled over _once_ ,” and delights in the huffy mumbling he receives in return.

“Is this the place?” Nott asks, still kicking her heels against the truck’s rear hitch. “It doesn’t even have a sign. Kinda sketchy, don’t you think?”

Fjord peers at the slip of paper in his hand. “This is the address Bryce gave me. They said we were _expected_.”

Caleb surveys the building. It’s across the street from the Crownsguard station, which seems legitimate, but Nott is right—there’s no signage, and barely any parking, just a low one-story building with few windows and a brick facade whose faded paint job proclaims it to be the _Alfield Butchery Co._

“The _butcher’s_?” Jester cries, holding Kiri more closely to her chest. She whirls on Fjord with tears in her eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Before Fjord can move to defend himself, the front door swings open and a kindly-looking middle aged man emerges, pushing a pair of thin spectacles up onto his balding forehead. He’s wearing scrubs and an official-looking nametag, and there’s a collective ease of tension at the sight of him. “Hello, hello! You must be the kids that found that young kenku, is that right?”

“Yes sir,” Fjord says, with a quick sideways glance at Jester. “Is this the wildlife refuge?”

“We’re the clinic associated with them, aye. Don’t mind the mess, we’ve just moved in and haven’t had time to put up proper signage. Come in, come in, let’s get the poor bird checked over so we can release it to the wild as soon as possible.”

“Er—just one of us, or…?”

“One, all, doesn’t matter!” His eyes rove over their straggling group and linger on Nott as she vaults out of the truck bed. Caleb braces himself, but there he makes no comment. “Some of you may have to wait in the lobby, but certainly, certainly. I’m Dr. Schuster, by the way, the overseer of our little zoo. Please, come inside!”

Fjord leans over and elbows Jester gently. “See? I told you it was the right place.”

“Jester,” Caleb says, “would you like us to… to take her in for you?”

“No, I will do it.” Jester sticks her nose in the air and sniffs loudly. “It’s not as if they are putting her down or anything. _Right_?” She directs this last to Dr. Schuster, who is still standing in the open doorway, a wrinkle of perplexion on his brow.

“Well naturally not! Watchmaster Bryce informed me of your good deed, and I am very excited to have the chance to help our little friend here before releasing it to the wild.”

“Want me to come with you?” Beau asks, leaning down a little to Jester’s level. Kiri, who had enjoyed the truck ride immensely, pokes her beak out of her blanket swaddling in Jester’s arms and croaks back at Beau, “Come with you?”

“I think Kiri says yes.” Jester pats the bird’s head and moves toward the stairs. “C’mon little baby, you have to see the doctor now.” Her voice wobbles a little, but she keeps her head high as she walks through the door that Dr. Schuster holds open for her, Beau on her heels. Nott hesitates before darting after them, and then the door swings shut with an air conditioned sigh.

It’s not until they’ve gone that Caleb realizes he’s alone with Molly and Fjord—and Yasha, who is standing with one hip cocked against the truck’s open hatch, a tiny private smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The silence feels weighted, palpable. Like he could reach out and touch it. As if summoned by the raw panic building in Caleb’s stomach, Frumpkin emerges from Caleb’s hood and drapes himself across the back of his neck like a scarf.

“You know,” Fjord says suddenly, and Molly jumps a little bit. Caleb can see Yasha quivering with pent-up laughter, and he wishes he were close enough to give her a good kick. “I thought I saw a bookstore around the corner, Caleb, if you wanted to check it out.”

Relief and excitement both slam into him in tandem, rinsing away the awkwardness that clings to him like old gum stuck to his heel. “Really? I didn’t even notice.”

“You were laying down in the back, that’s probably why.” Molly drags the toe of his shoe across a patch of grass sprouting out of the blacktop like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “You should go check it out, who knows how long they’re going to be. Yash and I can hold down the proverbial fort.”

“I don’t mind hanging out here on my own,” Yasha says, straight-faced. “You three go ahead.”

Caleb tries to stare her down, but she’s always been very good at avoiding unwanted eye contact, damn her. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” he presses. “We can just text the girls and let them know where we went.”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to leave Baby.” She jerks a thumb toward her scooter, which is propped on its kickstand next to Fjord’s truck. “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

“Need a new journal for your flowers or anything?” Molly asks.

A tiny smile flickers on her face. “Not yet. But if you see any books on manners, think of me.”

Molly snorts and reaches up to tweak a lock of her hair. “Will do.”

Fjord claims to remember the way, but Caleb looks it up on his phone just for something to do with his hands. The weight of new secrets drags itself along behind them as they strike out down the sidewalk, so heavy he can barely concentrate on plugging the word _bookstore_ into the proper app. Two pop up, one of them farther away on the outskirts of town, shiny and new; the other is just a three minute walk away, and brands itself as a marriage between bookshop and antiquery. The knot of anxiety raveled in his chest loosens a little at the prospect.

A text notification pops up as they turn the corner. It’s from Yasha.

**_[ur welcome]_ **

Caleb grits his teeth and types back **_[i hate you]_**.

 ** _[lol no u don’t]_ ** comes the swift reply, and Caleb shoves his phone into his pocket through sheer vexation.

The violence of the motion catches Fjord’s eye. “Everything okay over there?”

“Everything is just dandy,” Caleb grins through gritted teeth. Frumpkin shoves his face into Caleb’s neck, demanding pets and redirecting Caleb’s nervous energy in the same move. Clever fucking cat. Caleb would be lost without him.

“Is that it?” Molly says suddenly, casting his arm forward like he’s conjuring a portent right in front of them. The slither of his snake tattoo burns bright red-gold in the sun where it curls on its bed of lush leaves, and Caleb’s eye catches on the thick leather band around his wrist before passing onward to the sign that hangs a few hundred feet away: weathered wood freshly painted with the symbol of an open book, two eyes perched over it behind round cokebottle spectacles.

“The Broad Barn Incorporated,” Molly drawls, reading the curling script that sweeps beneath the colorful logo, “Purveyor of Fine Curiosities and Sundries. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it.” Despite his affected disinterest, Caleb can see his tail twitching excitedly at the prospect of _curiosities._ “This is the place?”

“That it is,” Fjord says cheerfully. “I hope it’s open.”

Closer inspection as they draw near reveals a glass storefront packed with weird odds and ends: a lushly-dressed porcelain doll is posed atop a spindle-legged table, and stacks of sun-bleached magazines vie for elbow room next to dusty woven baskets filled to the brim with dried flowers. The _Open_ sign hanging on the door has gone a weak-tea brown from years of sun exposure, but the door swings open readily enough to Caleb’s touch. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rings.

The smell of old books and dusty, long-forgotten things fills Caleb’s nose and he is lost to it. He bypasses the front counter, barely noticing the wizened old proprietor, and drifts past piles of random odds and ends to the bookshelves in the back. A fond little sigh and a low _well, we lost him_ meet his ears and then the shelves are before him and he forgets everything else.

The selection isn’t terribly varied, at first glance. A lot of books on farming—crop rotation, seasonal duties, suggestions on irrigation. There is a slim leather-bound volume, cracked a bit at the corners, that catches his eye. It’s only a collection of local fairy tales, but he picks it up anyway. Maybe it will cheer Jester up.

He gets a little lost, thumbing through the few books that catch his eye; lost enough that it takes him almost five minutes to realize Molly and Fjord are conducting a whispered argument on the other side of the store. They’re being pretty quiet about it—an outsider might think they were just having a lively debate, but Caleb can tell the subtle difference between that and… whatever this is. As if to cement his suspicions, Molly gets up in Fjord’s face, says something, and pokes him sharply in the chest with a forefinger. Fjord backs up, hands in the air, looking irritated. Then his eyes flick sideways and spot Caleb looking. Like a curtain dropping on a stage, a veneer of pleasant disinterest falls over the irritation on his face. He even has the gall to force a thin-lipped smile.

And then Molly turns and leaves the shop in a huff. The bell jingles sharply over the door like an alarm, startling Caleb into nearly dropping his book. He takes a moment to check the binding, making sure he hasn’t accidentally wrenched any seams, and when he looks up again the shop is deserted.

He takes half a step toward the door before he realizes what he’s doing. Disagreements happen—sometimes all-out fights, if Beau or Nott are involved in any way—and the usual method of dealing with it is standing back and letting the other parties work it out, only stepping in when someone asks for help or advice. It keeps things from getting too messy, too… cliquey. Keeps people from taking sides and forging hurt feelings. And yet.

Caleb’s fingers curl anxiously against the cover of his little book of fairy tales. He wants to _know._ He wants to know whether Fjord smelled him in the bathhouse, whether Molly heard his moment of weakness. He wants to know what Fjord said to him afterward. Whether Molly pushed him up against the bathhouse wall and kissed him like he kissed Caleb.

He wants to know if Molly is kissing him _right now._

Swift as a dark cloud boiling up on the ocean’s far horizon, Caleb’s mind makes itself up. He snaps his fingers and watches Frumpkin appear out of the corner of his eye, on the other side of the storefront glass. His cat blinks at him from the sidewalk and trots away, tail twitching.

There’s a little stool in the corner at the end of the bookshelf, covered in dust but sturdy enough. Caleb lowers himself onto it gingerly. His fingers around the book and the hard wooden seat beneath his arse are the only things he can feel as he slips into Frumpkin’s eyes, following his progress around the side of the building. It’s not difficult to track them down—he just follows the smell of tobacco and cloves, and the murky rise and fall of voices half-familiar when heard through Frumpkin’s sharp ears.

“How about you don’t try to tell me what to do, how’s that?” Molly is saying. Frumpkin crawls behind a rust-speckled dumpster and crouches just out of sight, peering around its bulk.

From this perspective Caleb can clearly see Fjord standing against the alley wall, hands in his pockets. Molly is opposite him, pacing neatly back and forth. Three steps one way. Stop. Turn. Three steps back. Stop. Turn. He’s not wearing anything particularly flowy, but it’s easy to imagine a graceful silk robe spilling out behind him, accentuated by the flick and tremor of his tail. A homemade cigarette dribbles smoke into the air from between Molly’s fingers, and the source of their disagreement becomes clear.

“All right,” Fjord says gruffly. “I guess it’s none of my business.” There’s an interminable pause. “Back there… I’m sorry for bringing it up. I didn’t think you still… thought about it.”

“You didn’t think I—!” Molly starts, incredulous, before cutting himself off. He takes a drag and turns his head askance to blow a thin stream of blueish smoke into the air, exposing the slim line of his throat: threaded with thin, pale scars and bright with blotches of color on one side where the peacock tail covers up the worst of it. His hand fiddles with the cigarette, rolling it restlessly between his fingers in familiar gesture. “Of course I still think about it on occasion. More often lately, I admit. You are quite nice to look at, as you well know, and I have… fond memories of that day.”

Fjord tucks his chin into his chest and crosses his arms. There’s something vaguely turtleish about the gesture—in any other scenario Caleb would be charmed. But right now, even through Frumpkin’s weirdly sharpened vision, he can feel the tension between his friends like a strand of wire about to snap.

“As do I,” Fjord says at last, gruffly. “I just thought maybe you, erm, would’ve preferred to leave it behind us.”

“Because of Caleb, you mean,” Molly says, and Caleb’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Yeah.” Fjord exhales heavily. “So that’s what this is really about.”

“What _what_ is really about?”

“You smoking again. The whole… shower debacle.”

“The _shower debacle_ ,” Molly echoes, clinging to humor by a single, delicate thread. “I claim no responsibility for that whatsoever. You know how long my beauty routine takes, Fjord.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me what we’re doin’ here, Molls.”

“You’re the one who followed me out here! Why don’t _you_ tell _me_?”

“I came out here because you looked upset, and I wanted to apologize. And if there’s more goin’ on under the surface, I think we should talk about it.” When no response is immediately forthcoming, Fjord leans back against the wall and props his foot up against it, like he’s settling in to wait. “Are you… jealous?” he asks after a bit, tentative.

“Jealous!” Molly laughs, exhuming smoke. “What a useless emotion. I try to avoid it at all costs.”

“That’s not an answer, Molls.”

Molly groans and turns for another walkabout, long purple legs eating up the crumbled blacktop. “This would be so much easier if I knew what the fuck you wanted me to say, Fjord.”

“The honest truth,” Fjord answers simply. “I don’t like seeing you like this. Maybe saying it out loud, whatever’s bothering you, will help.”

“A lot of things bother me on a daily basis,” Molly says, but his thin shoulders slump. He pitches the last of his cigarette to the ground with grim finality and grinds it beneath the heel of his sandal. “I kissed Caleb.”

Perfect, nerve-sick stillness falls like a blanket. Frumpkin’s ears twitch.

“When?” Fjord asks quietly.

“This morning. Early.”

Fjord hums. He doesn’t look angry, or even particularly shocked. “I thought I smelled your cigarettes on him.”

Caleb winces and buries his nose in his collar, just to be safe. His sense of smell is pretty dulled, directed mostly though Frumpkin, and between the shower and the change of clothes, there’s no spectral hints of anise lingering in the crook of his neck or on his lips. He thinks of the showers, remembers how eerily keen Fjord’s nose is, and blushes. If Fjord could smell Molly’s cigarettes… had he also smelled Caleb’s arousal, hot and magnified by the shower steam?

“Yeah,” Molly croaks at last, and Caleb forces himself to pay attention. “Perceptive.” Molly sighs and rubs his face with his hands. “I know it was stupid. I shouldn’t have done it—he’s barely said two words to me since, understandably. And now this… _you_ …”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Being all… concerned. And so fucking _earnest_. I can hardly stand to look at you.” His voice is audibly trembling. “I think maybe I should leave.”

“What do you mean? Leave… here, right now?”

“No, I mean— _leave_. The group. The trip. I’ve done very little but cause everyone to be annoyed at me, at the very least. Or afraid of me, at the worst.”

“Caleb ain’t _afraid_ of you, Molls.” Fjord pushes away from the wall and walks toward him. Molly sways, like he’s thinking of backing up, but he stays where he is by a hairsbreadth. “Y’know, if anything, I think you’re afraid of _him_. And me.”

Molly scoffs. “And why’s that?”

“Because you have feelings for him, and it terrifies you,” Fjord says, perfectly even and unaffected. Another step forward, til they’re nearly toe to toe. “Almost as much as it terrifies you that you have feelings for _me_.”

“Fucking hell,” Molly says after a beat.

“You can tell me I’m wrong, I won’t be offended.” Fjord stuffs his hands into his pockets and waits. At this angle, Frumpkin can make out the edge of Molly’s jaw working in silence, the flick and tremble of his tail, but little else.

“I can’t,” Molly chokes at last. “You’re not wrong. But it’s not… not my move to make. I know that.”

Slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal, Fjord reaches out. His sturdy hand grazes lightly against Molly’s taut bicep—asking permission. Molly leans forward a little. Acceptance. Caleb holds his breath and burns inside. “Why,” Fjord asks lowly, “do you try so hard to pretend you’re not the most selfless bastard I’ve ever met?”

“I’m really not,” Molly murmurs. Gradually, the frantic movements of his tail slow, extending into a calmer, headier frequency. He fiddles with the cuffs of his artfully rumpled buttondown. “I’m as selfish as they come. I just happen to have a… a sense of self-preservation about these things.”

“What things?”

“These… messy, complicated… fucking _infernal_ relationships, and feelings, and—oh, hang it—”

Their noses brush, and then, mid-sentence, Fjord closes the distance. Sitting blind and deaf in the shop just a few hundred feet away, Caleb is aflame. Fjord is _kissing_ Molly, firm and without finesse, hands on his shoulders to keep his restless limbs from spinning out of control. It’s not a tender kiss, but it’s not particularly harsh, either—it’s a kiss meant to quiet him. Center him. After a moment, Molly’s mouth softens, opens, and kisses back.

Caleb’s stomach twists, but not with grief. Not with fury. With something else entirely, something he’s not sure how to name. Part of him wants to flee Frumpkin’s head out of sheer embarrassment, and yet he’s spellbound. They make a lovely, garish picture—purple fingers lacing with green, the tilt and flash of Molly’s horns in the afternoon light. Heat pools low in his stomach, and guilt for prying into such a private moment.

Then Molly unwinds their clinging fingers. He takes Fjord’s face in his hands and pushes him away, gently, with a decadent smacking sound as their lips break apart.

“Oh, darling, that’s not allowed.” In spite of his words, Molly touches his mouth lightly with his fingertips, feeling the burning brand of Fjord’s mouth against his. He fumbles for another cigarette.

“That’s a bit hypocritical of you, don’t you think?” Fjord inquires, hoarse and out of breath as he backs away, cutting of Frumpkin’s view of him. Caleb squirms in his seat.

“Oh yes, _I’m_ the hypocrite. Why, because I kissed you back?” He futzes with his lighter and eventually gives up with a curse, stuffing it and the cigarette back into his pocket. “Not my fault you’re a bloody good kisser, you fuck.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Molly folds his arms over his chest and drops them again. “Fine. It was a compliment. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Fjord barks a laugh. “I’ll try not to. Hey, Molls, listen to me a minute. I’m not… not used to this sort of thing. I don’t play these games—”

“Neither do I,” Molly says quickly, determined. “Not anymore.”

“Well.” Fjord bows his head in thought. “We’re at an impasse, then. Either you tell him how you feel, and we come to an arrangement that’s acceptable to all parties, or…”

“Or I leave,” Molly finishes.

“No. Molls, please.”

“Don’t fucking give me that look, Fjord. I don’t need your pity, or your second helpings.”

A pause. Through Frumpkin’s eyes, Caleb watches Fjord reach out. At first it looks like he’s going for his shoulder, a companionable but less intimate gesture; then, at the last second, he cups Molly’s cheek instead. Frumpkin’s eyes are keen, and he can see the single droplet of water that pools at the corner of Molly’s eye and falls, crystalline, to shatter on the ground.

“You’re not my second choice, Molls,” Fjord says quietly.

Molly sniffs. “Aren’t I?” He doesn’t reach for Fjord in turn, but neither does he push him away. Caleb can hardly fault him—Fjord’s tenderness with his friends is legendary. “It’s been clear to me since we were kids how you felt about him. I am many things, but I’m not a fucking homewrecker. You… got there first, as much as it pains me to say it.”

Fjord’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “This isn’t a _race_ , Molly. Caleb isn’t a prize to be won.”

“I know he isn’t. But I know _you_. You’ve been in love with him since long before I entered the picture. Haven’t you?”

Fjord says nothing.

Molly shuts his eyes and rubs them with the heels of his palms. “That is… way more emotional labor than I was prepared to handle going into this trip. Listen—no, don’t interrupt me. I don’t _blame_ you, all right? You’re one of my dearest friends, there’s very little you could do to scare me away for good.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head like a dog fresh out of water. “It’s okay that you’re in love with him, Fjord. I… I love him too. For what it’s worth.”

Fjord hums a soft agreement in his throat. “He sort of… inspires it, doesn’t he.”

“He does. And that’s why I can’t stay. I’ll come back,” he adds quickly, when Fjord opens his mouth to protest. “It won’t be forever. I just need to get my head on right. Get some space.”

“That’s it then?” Fjord asks. He sounds sad, and it prompts a sympathetic heat behind Caleb’s eyes. _He’s giving up._ “You’re not even going to try?”

“Try… try what?”

“Telling him how you feel.”

“And what, scare him away for good? Absolutely not.”

“You’re not giving him enough credit.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps my interpretation is totally off and he _did_ , in fact, somehow, enjoy being kissed without warning behind a smelly bathhouse. But what about you? You’re really going to… what, _share_ him? You’re one of the most fiercely protective, loyal people I know. Forgive me, but I can’t see how this would work.”

Fjord hems and haws. “It’s true, I’m not… I don’t have a lot of experience, let’s say. There would be a learning curve. But…” The word trails off into silence, and for a second Caleb thinks he’s just reaching for the right words. Then he turns his head and sneezes hard into the crook of his elbow. “Whew! Sorry, don’t know where that came from.”

Molly’s entire posture changes in an instant. He straightens up and steps away from Fjord, sharp eyes sweeping the alleyway. Fumbling, Caleb reaches out, trying to summon Frumpkin back, but he’s not quick enough. At the very last second, fingers poised to snap, Frumpkin locks eyes with Molly. Molly’s grim expression cracks.

“Fuck.”

Caleb opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Afraid of Nothing by Sharon van Etten. 
> 
> A few notes: the disagreement Fjord and Molly had is related to the third "story" in this series, an outtake that takes place about a year and a half before the events of the main story. I recommend reading it to be fully caught up, but if you're not about the smut, the jist is that Molly and Fjord have a friendly ~first time~ together, no strings attached. (Of course, in this scenario, there are... a few strings.) Second, certain gender presentations in canon have fluctuated since I started working on this, so after some consideration I've decided to write Molly as a trans nonbinary person who prefers he/him pronouns. I have some adjacency with that personally (less the trans aspect and more the nb aspect), but if I get anything terribly wrong, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll course-correct!
> 
> And finally, thank you so much for all the feedback. It's a joy to write for y'all!!


	17. i'm the same boy i used to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets milkshakes.

_12 years prior. Yasha._

Yasha knew something was different the second she stepped through the door. The house was way too quiet, for one—normally Gramps, their ancient Maine Coon cat, would come barreling toward her the second she crossed the threshold. But there was nothing, not even the distant meow of a cat who’d got himself stuck in the laundry chute again.

She tiptoed a little further inside, every nerve on high alert. Bo’s backpack hung on the wall next to Toya’s pink satchel, and their shoes were lined up neatly beneath. The twins weren’t back yet, but they had drama practice after school, so that wasn’t unusual.

The floor creaked suddenly, and Bo came around the corner. He beamed when he saw her and went in for a high-five, but it was quieter than his usual fare.

“What’s going on?” Yasha asked softly. “Where’s Gustav?”

“Got a new kid in today,” Bo said with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. “Gus and Toya are getting him settled in. Them? Er, I’m not really sure.” Bo scratched his head. “They’re not what I’d call the talkative type.”

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah. End of the hall. Gramps is with them, too,” he added as Yasha passed him, headed for the stairs.

The funeral home pallor lasted only as long as it took for Yasha to get to the second floor. Gustav’s mellow tenor reached her ears from down the hall, methodical and instantly recognizable from the sheer lack of inflection: he was giving the _rules and regs of the house_ spiel that he gave to everyone. Yasha had only heard it a few times—she was one of the newer kids, comparatively—but she could practically say it by heart.

"No drugs or alcohol on the premises." Oh, he was at the really fun part. "Medication is to be taken strictly as ordered by your doctor. Let me know if you need help keeping track, there’s a schedule in the upstairs bathroom and one on the fridge downstairs."

Yasha mouthed along absently as she strolled down the hall. She wasn’t _sneaking_. Just… taking her time. She didn’t want to interrupt The Speech.

“And last but not least,” Gustav was saying as she neared the half-open door, “I want you to feel safe here. This is a safe place. Anything you need, anything you’re having trouble with, even if it’s as simple as changing a bandage—” _Wait, what?_ “...let me know. Or any of the kids.” There was a fond pause, and Yasha held her breath where she stood outside the door. “Toya’s quiet, but she’s an excellent helper. You can go to her for anything. Age-appropriate, of course,” Gustav added firmly. “Can I get a thumbs up if you’re okay with all of that? Excellent. Here, let me introduce you to another member of the household, while you’re awake. Yasha?” His voice pitched louder in her direction and Yasha winced. Damn it, how could he tell she was there? “You can come in.”

Yasha pushed her heavy mane of hair back from her face and stepped into the room, taking the scene in at a glance. The room had been cleaned and tidied since Ornna vacated it a month ago for her new adoptive home, the bed arranged to be closer to the window. In it was the new kid. A very thin tiefling, with sunken cheeks and a nasal cannula taped across their upper lip. Purple skin was her first impression, followed immediately by the curling horns, the shaved scalp, and, most glaring of all, the scars. They littered the person’s arms and neck and seemed to disappear under their baggy, nondescript tee shirt, crawling up their throat to culminate in a square of gauze taped to the side of their face.

“Er. Hello,” Yasha said, before Gustav could call her out for staring. She looked instead at Toya, who was sat on the end of the bed, Gramps sprawled hairily across her lap. “Um. Welcome.”

“This is Yasha,” Gustav said. He was standing near the window, checklist in hand, his tiny reading glasses balanced adroitly on the end of his nose. “Yasha, this is M.”

She cocked her head, wondering if she’d misheard. “Just M?”

“For now that’s what they’ve indicated they’d like to be called. M isn’t very talkative, but they enjoy company, so feel free to stay and chat as long as they’re comfortable.” Gustav picked up a clipboard that was sitting on the bedside stand. Yasha had been in enough hospitals to know a medical chart when she saw one. “I’m going to organize your medication and set it up so you can have it within easy reach, since the doctor said you’re fairly self-sufficient. I’ve got a burner phone for you so you can text me with anything you need.”

M, who looked as though they’d been through a war zone, cracked a tiny smile and gave a thumbs up for _okay_. Their eyes were red and pupiless, but Yasha had a weird feeling that they were looking right at her.

Gustav departed soon after, and Yasha was left standing there awkwardly, not sure what to say or what to do with her hands. Toya gave an audible huff and patted the blanket beside her.

“Fine, fine.” Yasha walked lightly to the bed, keenly aware of the new kid’s eyes on her. _Kid_ was maybe uncharitable—they looked to be about her age, or a tiny bit younger. Middle teens at least. She leaned against the bed rather than sit on it and looked at them. “Well. I’m not much of a talker either, so. What kind of stuff do you want me to say?”

M regarded her with a blank expression. Then they lifted their hands and made a gesture she wasn’t familiar with.

“Um…”

On her other side, Toya tapped her arm. “House,” she whispered.

“You wanna know about the house?” Thumbs up. “Okay, cool. I don’t know how much you know, so I’ll just…” She trailed off, not sure what she was waiting for. M blinked at her expectantly. “Right. So this is Gustav’s place, he built it himself with his brother or something ages ago. Now it’s our house too. It’s kind of on the edge of the camp—he told you about the Moondrop, right? Yeah. So it’s open in the summer and Gustav runs the place, but the rest of the time it’s like, rented out to weddings and parties and shit. I guess they like the lake. And in the winter it’s just ours. If you’re here for a while you’ll see. The lake is good for skating, and there’s a pretty sweet hill you can ski or sled down.”

“Yasha likes the cold,” Toya put in softly, head bowed toward the cat purring in her lap.

“Yeah. I’m from off east. Xhorhas.” She waited for the distaste, the fear, but all she got was a wrinkled brow and a shrug. “Xhorhas? Mountains, cold? The Empire hates us?” Nothing. “Huh. Okay.”

M held up a finger and reached sideways around the oxygen tank, sitting in its harness by the bed, to grab their medical chart. They held it out to her and waited.

“Am I allowed to read this?” Yasha asked, even as she took it. M shrugged again.

The clipboard was a mess of charts and papers and things she didn’t really understand, but after a minute or two of sifting, the pieces came together. Bystander in a bad car accident; blunt force trauma; legally dead for two minutes. Dramatic memory loss. Responded readily to stimuli, but had no verbal capabilities in spite of the lack of physical damage to the vocal chords. A CT scan had ruled out brain injury relating to speech, but black and white cross-sections of M’s skull showed internal swelling that made Yasha wince just to look at. Then she flipped to the last page, caught a glimpse of a ruined face etched in stark greyscale, and slammed the clipboard down.

“Shit,” she said. Her stomach flipped a bit and settled. “What happened to you, man?”

Another shrug. M was watching her closely, like they were waiting for a reaction of some kind—their fingers were practically claws where they clutched the bedding. They were afraid.

Yasha forced herself to relax and returned the clipboard, telegraphing each movement beforehand. “Well,” she said, trying to summon good cheer, “it’s good to have you, M. It’s been pretty light in the problem child department lately, so it’ll be fun to have someone new around. Er, not that you’re a problem child, just…”

She trailed off as a delighted, devilish smile curled across M’s battered face. They stuck their thumb up with all the vigor of a warrior raising a tankard of ale for a toast. Yasha shook her head and grinned back.

_Yeah, this one’s gonna be fun._

* * *

_Present day._

When they return to the wildlife rescue, the deed has been done: Jester is perched forlornly on the open hatch of Fjord’s truck, eyes shimmering as she lets Nott go buckwild with her hair. Beau waves as they approach, looking a bit frazzled.

“Thank god you guys are here, Jester’s about to go full waterworks and I don’t do very well with that shit.” She casts Molly a wide _please help_ sort of look, and Caleb lets out a quick breath of relief as Molly goes immediately to Jester’s side.

He’s not sure how he survived the past ten minutes. Mainly by keeping his nose in his new book and refusing to make eye contact with either of them. He didn’t dare summon Frumpkin, so the walk back was silent and aching with tension. He sweated right through his shirt, waiting for one of them to call him out—but nothing happened.

And now he’s here, standing next to Fjord’s truck, trying to focus on his friends in the present and not the horrible, gut-twisting mistake he just made.

“Hey sweet pea, look what we got you,” Molly says as he flutters up to Jester like a great purple butterfly. There’s nothing in his voice or manner to suggest he was practically weeping in Fjord’s arms a short while ago. Caleb watches Molly tear the perfume bottle free of its brown paper wrappings and fold it into Jester’s hand. “Lavender, for your momma.”

Jester gasps and smiles, still fragile at the edges but bless her she’s trying. “Mooolly, you’re the sweetest thing! Where did you get this from?”

“From this absolutely darling like antique shop around the corner. I’ll have dust in my nose for days, but it was worth it. Just be careful, this stuff is powerful. It’ll singe the hair right out of your nostrils.” Molly drops a fond kiss to the top of Jester’s head and turns, showing off his new shawl. “See this? He was charging a criminally low amount, I’m half convinced it’s a hundred years old.”

Caleb realizes suddenly that Fjord has edged nearer to him during this small performance. He tightens his grip on the book in his hands—he’d declined a bag from the kind older fellow who ran the place—and waits, eyes boring holes in the pavement, hands clammy and stiff.

_He knows. He knows you saw everything, and he’s going to ask you about it, and he’s going to be furious—_

“Hey guys,” Beau says, appearing out of nowhere like a guardian angel. Caleb nearly collapses with relief, has to actually steady himself with a slouch against the truck that he hopes reads as casual. “How was the bookshop?”

“More of an antique store than anything,” Caleb says quickly before Fjord can get a word in edgewise. “But I got a few books, and Molly found perfume for Jester. Um. How did it go with Kiri?”

“Fine, I think.” Beau is hardly even looking at him—instead her eyes are on Jester. So are Fjord’s, thank goodness. Disaster averted. “The vet seemed pretty stoked to have Kiri. I guess they’re declared an endangered species in Xhorhas. There’s been big migrations of them spreading south and west and no one knows why.” Beau shrugs. “Either way, she’ll be fine. She had a sprained wing or something, but they’ll take care of it and make sure she’s returned to the wild safely when she’s old enough to take care of herself.”

“Good.” Caleb deems it safe to conjure Frumpkin, and holds him against his shoulder. Just the weight of him is a soft bloom of relief to his frazzled nerves, and he glances again to where Jester and Molly have their heads bent together. He would send him to Jester for comfort, but she’s broken out the perfume and is very carefully dabbing a bit on her pulse points, so he refrains and turns instead to Beau. “You should… you know.”

Beau stares at him blankly. “I should what?”

He jerks his chin in Jester’s direction. Part of him is screaming internally, wanting to know what the hell he’s doing—Fjord is _right here_ , could demand answers from him at any time—but the mopey look on Beau’s face is stronger. “Go to her.”

The veneer of cockiness slides off Beau’s face. “I don’t know how,” she hisses back. “I mean, look at him—he’s doing it all perfectly, keeping her mind off shit, making her smile—I don’t fuckin’ know how to do that!”

Together the three of them watch as Molly finishes his little act with a bow and a flourish, kissing a giggling Jester’s hand with utmost gravity. She still looks a little sad and distant, but her eyes are bright with curiosity and her tail is twitching behind her. All good signs.

“You’ll never know how if you don’t practice,” Fjord puts in, and gives Beau a gentle shove.

She flips him the bird behind her back, but she goes. With only a little hesitation, she puts her hand on Jester’s knee and leans in to kiss her cheek. “Hey babe, you hungry? I’m pretty sure the diner we passed on the way in has, like, pint-sized milkshakes.”

Jester’s mouth forms a perfect O shape. Molly glances over at them and gives a discreet thumbs-up. “Wait, _really_? Milkshakes are the best!”

“I’ll even buy you your favorite flavor,” Beau wheedles, tugging on a loose whorl of blue hair.

Jester sniffs and rubs her damp cheeks. “What if I have _ten_ favorite flavors?”

“Ehhh…” Beau trails off, looking to Caleb for assistance.

“We’ll crowdsource it,” Molly hops in. He slides off the truck bed and gives her cheek a pat. “C’mon, sweet pea, chin up. Just think of how happy Kiri will be when she’s big enough to be released into the wild. She’ll be able to fly _so high_ and see _so much_.”

“Yeah.” Jester’s lower lip goes a bit wobbly.

“Y’know what’s even better, actually?” Beau puts in. “The amount of swear words we taught that bird in less than twenty-four hours.”

This produces giggles, and Nott throws up fingerguns as she crows, “Go fuck yourself!” in a passable imitation of Kiri-as-Jester. Caleb shakes his head, grinning, and makes an _okay_ symbol with his hand in Beau’s general direction. She’s too busy tickling her girlfriend to notice.

It’s a rising tide of good humor and punch-drunk silliness to roll into the diner on. They’re a little bit past the noonday rush, so it’s no great issue to push another table onto the end of a booth looking out over the street. A round of milkshakes is ordered—Nott’s with booze amended—and a high-stakes war is put into action as Beau and Molly begin arguing over what appetizers they want to order for the table. The familiarity of it strikes a strange, reverberating chord in his chest that he can’t explain. The last half-hour or so feel like a daydream, some figment of his imagination that he whiled away on his back in the grass, letting the sun kiss his face.

_Soft lips on his. The taste of salt and anise. Long lashes and a darting, purple-edged smile._

From behind his menu, Caleb glances at Fjord across the yellow Formica. Fjord’s brow is smooth and more unworried than it’s been in days. That same soft lock of unstyled hair curls over his forehead, hiding the scar that nicks his eyebrow at the top of its arch. He blinks, lashes long and soft. And looks up.

Caleb look away quickly. Gathers his courage and looks back. Fjord’s deep amber eyes are still on him. Caleb’s breath slows in his chest and grows tight as the chatter around him begins to fade in to the background. He wonders what it would be like to kiss Fjord. If it would be different from Molly—rougher, maybe. Fjord gets a bit lazy when they’re on vacation, and he hasn’t shaved today, so he’s got a little bit of bristle around the edges of his lips and the shallow dimple in his chin. His teeth are bigger, too, though he lacks the razor-sharp canines Molly carries in his mouth. His tusks he keeps well-filed, and it breaks Caleb’s heart a little bit. He wonders if Fjord would ever consider growing them back. If he would kiss differently with them in his mouth. Leave marks on Caleb’s neck for later.

Something brushes his foot under the table, and he snaps out of it with a jerk. At his side, Nott cocks her head in his direction. “You okay?”

“Ja, ja… I’m fine.” He buries his nose in the menu again, face burning. He peeks slowly under the table. Fjord’s foot is resting next to his. _Oh._

As he watches, a pointed purple tail sways into view and hooks itself around Fjord’s ankle. Caleb sits back sharply against the padded seat and pins his eyes to the menu. There are so many butterflies in his stomach that he’s not hungry at all, but he tries to read through it anyway.

Their milkshakes come, plunked one at a time in front of them by their brusque but pretty server, and he is distracted momentarily by Beau’s shameless flirting. She only subsides when Jester gives her bicep an unsubtle pinch.

“Not while she’s at _work_ ,” Jester hisses once the waitress—Adeline, her name tag proclaims—swans off with her notebook full of orders. “It’s bad manners.”

“Sorry,” Beau says glumly. She leans back in her seat and folds her arms over her chest. “Fine, I’ll catch her on her smoke break, then.”

“Shameless,” Molly tuts, and grins when Beau kicks him under the table. “Careful with that combat boot of yours, Beauregard. You might hit someone you actually like.”

“Shut up, Molly, you know I like all of you _almost_ equally.” She reaches behind Jester’s head and tweaks Molly’s ear. “How’s the milkshake, babe?”

Jester takes a long, rattling slurp through her swirly straw. “Delicious,” she proclaims. She’s got whip cream on her nose, and a fleck of chocolate sprinkle, but no one decides to mention it.

It would be rude to summon Frumpkin at the table, Caleb decides after some internal debate, so to calm his nerves he takes stock of their arrangement instead. Beau and Jester are squeezed together near the window, chocolate and root beer milkshakes respectively. Fjord sits next to Jester with plain vanilla and rainbow sprinkles, delicately plucking the maraschino cherry out with his fingernails and dropping it onto Molly’s banana split on his other side. Then Yasha at the end, knees spread wide to accommodate her height, with a mint chocolate chip milkshake on the table in front of her. On Caleb’s left is Nott, with her boozy Irish Cream shake, Caleb himself with strawberry, and then back around to Beau, who is dragging her finger through the whipped cream on Jester’s glass and sucking it off her fingers obscenely.

“Must you?” Molly drawls. “The rest of us have to watch you mindfucking your girlfriend, you know.”

Beau pops her fingers out of her mouth and smiled, lips as red as a berry. “Jealous?”

“Not in the slightest. Yasha, d’you want to switch? Be a part of this licentious display?”

Yasha just smiles and shakes her head. “You’re one to talk about _displays_ , Molly.”

“Ugh, fine, call me out. You’re a terrible friend.” Molly begins to mash his banana split up into a chocolatey-ice cream mess, pausing periodically to lick his spoon clean. His tongue piercing clinks against the metal, and Caleb watches as Fjord shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Would anyone like a taste?”

“Not after you’ve butchered it, thank you,” Caleb murmurs. Nott jumps at the chance and stands up on the bench to accept a spoonful of banana gunk straight into her open mouth. “Charming.”

“I am, thank you,” Molly says matter-of-factly. “As is Nott, aren’t you my dear?”

“Learned from the best,” Nott slurs through her mouthful. She swallows, poorly, and grins. Her teeth are all black with chocolate sprinkles.

“Gross!” Jester squeals with delight. “Molly do me next!”

“Oh, if you insist, my dear. Beau, watch closely, this is how it’s done.”

“Puh-lease. I’ll bet you twenty bucks I’m better with my mouth than you are.”

“I’ll take that bet, thank you—as long as Jester is the judge. No offense, Yash, but you’re basically like my sister.”

“No offense taken,” Yasha sighs.

Beneath the table, Fjord nudges Caleb’s foot again. He catches his breath and glances up. Fjord is watching the chaos unfold with a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth, but his fingers are tapping restlessly against the table, and the press of his calf to Caleb’s ankle is unmistakable.

Their food is delivered, finally. Caleb can’t even remember ordering, but Adeline puts a plate of sweet potato curly fries in front of him and nothing else. Nott gives him the thumbs up.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pitched low under the current of conversation. Nott pats his knee.

“You were preoccupied. No worries.”

“Am I that obvious?” he mutters, peeling the little wrappers off the provided honey packets one by one. A little honey gets smeared on his thumb and he pops it into his mouth to suck it off. If he happens to meet Fjord’s eyes while he does it, that’s neither here nor there.

Nott snorts. “The lot of you are insufferable,” she whispers back, but she’s smiling as she tucks a napkin into her shirt in preparation for the feast.

Caleb isn’t sure how to respond, so he just nibbles on his fries and drinks his shake, waiting for the vague, anxious twist in his stomach to subside. It never quite does. Fjord doesn’t advance their game of footsie anymore, but neither does he move away, only growing increasingly green in the cheeks as the meal progresses. Nott passes around her flask for people to add to their drinks surreptitiously, and the atmosphere grows decidedly more silly. Thank goodness they’re the only current customers, or Caleb is sure Adeline wouldn’t hesitate to throw them out on their asses.

He doesn’t take any booze himself, but he watches Fjord pour a good ounce or two into the dregs of his milkshake and suck it down like it’s candy. Not enough to get him drunk, per se, but enough to loosen his smile. He has such a pretty smile, and he plies it frequently, unafraid to boom with raucous laughter, even when he’s the butt of his friends’ jokes. He gives as good as he gets, too, to the point that Jester is facedown on the table laughing and Beau is pretending to gag into her empty glass at the recounting of the now-infamous Brownie Incident.

“What did I say about wanting to hear about Molly’s dick!” she groans loudly.

“That you _don’t_ want to hear about it?” Nott supplies.

“Yeah, exactly! I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime and beyond, I just didn’t expect to hear it from _you_ , Fjord.”

“Not my fault Fjord has a loose tongue,” Molly says primly.

“Not my fault you have a nice dick,” Fjord shoots back. He only seems to realize what he’s said _after_ he’s said it, and he tries to hide behind his mostly-finished milkshake as the table bursts into laughter. Grinning and giddy, Caleb lets his foot slide along the inside of Fjord’s calf and up until he bumps into the place where Molly’s tail is loosely wrapped around his calf.

His phone buzzes in his pocket suddenly, distracting him from whatever their reaction might be. He drops his foot to the ground and wrests his phone free to find a text waiting.

**Jester: [ _so when are you guys going to f*$#HDFS$#???_ ]**

Caleb glares across the table at her, but she’s giggling madly as she steals a sip of Beau’s milkshake. Her phone is face-up on the table, locked, screen dark and innocent. Then, as he watches, it lights up with a text the same time that his phone hums in his hand.

**Yasha: _[babe u sent it to the group chat]_**

Face warm, Caleb types out his reply. _**[if anyone is keysmashing please do it in the Stormchaser so we can at least pretend not to hear it. Xx]**_

“Anyway,” Molly drawls, voice cutting through the buzz of distraction, “if you think _that’s_ funny, you should have seen us the morning after. Fjord drooled _all over_ my shoulder.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Jester says airily. She still hasn’t picked up her phone. “You have had _much worse_ fluids on you before, Molly.”

“Yeah, remember that time—”

**Nott: _[ohmygod please keep fucking noises to a minimum i havent had a chance to charge my noise cancelling headphones xoxo]_**

**Beau: _[WHO IS FUCKING WHO]_**

**Caleb: _[you are, beauregard]_**

“Fuck you, Caleb,” Beau says aloud, grinning. She slings her arm around Caleb’s shoulders and uses the same had to prod Nott in the shoulder. “I’ll buy you batteries, boo.”

“For the headphones or for my vibe?” Nott asks, completely deadpan. Caleb chokes on his own spit and puts his head down on the table. Underneath, Fjord’s foot nudges his. His phone buzzes in his hand and he steals a peek. It’s from Fjord, just to him.

**Fjord: _[everything alright?]_**

Caleb chews on his lip, ignoring the way Beau’s elbow is digging into his spine as she chats with Nott over his head. _**[when were you going to tell me]**_

**Fjord: _[???]_**

**Caleb: _[that you were in love with me]_**

There’s a certain kind of safety in this. Not having to make eye contact, but making contact nonetheless. Feeling the tremor of Fjord’s foot against his and hearing the stutter of his breath even over the laughter of their friends. He watches the three dots pop up and disappear a few times. Molly’s tailtip twitches against Fjord’s calf.

**Caleb: _[and also with molly]_**

**Fjord: _[holy shit, caleb]_**

“Awww, you can’t leave it there!” Jester cries. “What happened the next morning?”

Yasha gives a disinterested grunt. “It was really very anticlimactic. I tried to sneak out but she woke up, and tried to make me breakfast, and then I climbed out the window.”

Caleb peers over the top of his arm, folded on the table. Fjord is staring straight at him. Eyes wide and glowing pale gold in the light slanting in through the window, a finger worrying the scar that bisects his top lip. Another new addition since last year. There’s a tiny nervous twitch to his smile and Fjord looks back at his phone.

**Fjord: _[i didn’t want to disrupt the status quo]_**

**Fjord: _[guess you did that for me. But i don’t mind if you don’t]_**

It’s coming easier to him, now. The first wave of terror has passed and been replaced with stark relief. Caleb bites his lip, giddy and grinning, and begins typing rapidly.

**Caleb: _[i don’t think it has to be a big scary thing. I think we can just do it. Be it. Whatever that is]_**

**Caleb: _[also i’m sorry for spying but not that sorry]_**

**Caleb: _[molly can be part of it too if he wants. And if you want?]_**

**Caleb: _[i dont really know what im doing sorry]_**

**Fjord: _[this feels like the kind of conversation we should be having in person]_**

Caleb winces.

**Caleb: _[yeah but this is less scary]_**

“Caayyyleb, are you okay? You’ve been down there for a really long time.”

“He’s fine, Jes, leave him alone,” Nott bristles, but Caleb carefully locks his phone screen and places it face down in front of him. It immediately buzzes again, and then again. Across the table, Fjord glances at him over his own phone, and smiles.

“I’m good, ja, thank you Jester. Just… a lot of sugar.” He pokes at his half-empty milkshake glass.

“Guys,” Yasha says suddenly. “We should probably talk about our next move.”

“Our next… oh, right.” Beau ruffles Caleb’s hair and leans back against the table. “Yeah I think I’ve seen what I wanted to see. Time to get the fuck out of dodge.”

Another buzz. Caleb sighs and reaches for his phone. Nothing from Fjord, to his tender disappointment, but the group chat has several new messages, most of them from Jester, and there’s an ominous _**several people are typing**_ at the bottom of the screen.

**Jester: _[it wasn’t an accident!!]_**

**Jester: _[and i meant the boys obviously]_**

**Jester: _[fjord when r u goin to fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck molly]_**

**Nott: _[tmi jess]_**

**Beau: _[GROSS]_**

The sound of Fjord dropping his phone onto the table is very loud in the sudden silence of everyone checking their messages at once. “Yeah I’d better—go get the road map. From my truck. So we can plan properly. I’ll be right back.”

He gets up, refusing to match eyes with anyone, and is out the door before anyone can dissuade him. Yasha clears her throat and glares at Jester. “Nicely done.”

Jester’s wicked grin slips a little. “Did I say something wrong?”

“He’s fine,” Beau dismisses, waving a hand. “He’s just being his sensitive green self. You know how he is about… sex stuff.”

“Sex stuff?” Molly echoes, picking up his phone. He groans. “Jess…”

“What?? I was just _teasing_ him, I didn’t mean to make him mad!”

“He’s not mad, he’s just embarrassed. Babycakes, don’t worry about it.” Beau reaches across the table and pats her girlfriend on the cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m gonna go get another milkshake, do you want anything?”

“Ooh! Maybe cherry… or birthday cake… or salted caramel!”

“Maybe you should go with her and pick,” Molly says obsequiously.

“Good idea!” Jester pecks him on the cheek before crawling over his lap and darting to the counter. Before Caleb can begin to move out of Beau’s way, she steps onto the bench and _over_ Nott and Caleb to disembark on the other side. Adeline gives her the stink eye from behind the counter and is summarily ignored.

“So,” Yasha says once they’ve gone, “who’s going to tell Fjord the map is in the Stormchaser, not his truck?”

Caleb locks eyes with Molly over the table. Molly tilts his head. _You go on._

“I’ll go.” He waits (politely) for Nott to wriggle out of the booth, and then he takes himself off, resisting the urge to summon Frumpkin. Outside is warm and a little bit humid, but breezy. He brushes his fingers over the front of his hoodie, threading a delicate prestidigitation spell through the gesture to get rid of all the lingering cat hair. And then he goes to find Fjord.

Fjord is sitting on the open hatch of his truck, feet dangling just a little and phone in his hands. He looks up when Caleb approaches. Buffs a quick smile across his face and straightens up. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“I’ve been sent to tell you the map is back at camp,” Caleb says hesitantly, stopping just a step farther back than he normally would. Fjord probably doesn’t notice, but to Caleb the distance feels insurmountable and painfully obvious.

“Oh, I know. I just needed some space.” Fjord fidgets with his phone and then sets it next to him, face down.

“Jester is… a bit excitable.”

“Excitable. Yeah. That’s… that’s a word.” Fjord looks down at his folded hands. “I just wish she wouldn’t pry. Not right now. It feels delicate, y’know? Like I’m still tryin’ to figure out how all the pieces are gonna fit together.”

“You mean…” Caleb’s mouth is so dry. He wets his lips and forces himself to take that next step, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his jeans. The wind stirs his hair back where Beau ruffled it, and it feels for a moment like someone is running their fingers through it, tickling the nape of his neck. “You mean us.”

“Yeah.” Fjord still isn’t looking at him. He can’t help but feel partially responsible.

“I really am sorry for eavesdropping.”

“I can’t blame you, I guess,” Fjord says. He huffs a little laugh and kicks his feet against the hitch. “I would’ve done the same in your place. I’m just… I’m tryin’ to think back and remember if I said anything, uh, incriminating. I don’t really know how much you heard.”

“I sent Frumps after you pretty quickly,” Caleb admits. “So, most of it.”

“Right. Well. That’s that, then. All out in the open.”

Caleb squares his shoulder and tries to stand a little taller. Be a little braver. “You didn’t, by the way. Say anything incriminating. Unless you considering making out with Mollymauk in a back alley to be incriminating.”

“Oh…” Fjord’s worried frown creases with laughter and he covers his face with his hands. “Right. Uh. He sure does get around, huh?”

“He _is_ terribly pretty,” Caleb observes. He takes another step closer. Now he’s well within Fjord’s space, knees nearly brushing, but it doesn’t feel like an invasion of space. It just feels… natural. Like they were always meant to stand this close. Breathe the same air. Knock knees together like they’re boys again, fishing down at the crick. “Did you really, um. Sleep with him?”

“Like a year ago or so,” comes the semi-muffled confession. “The morning after the brownie incident. It was just a friendly thing, not like… you know. Desperate longing and, and tumultuous emotions or whatever nonsense Jester likes to read.”

Caleb grins. “The ones you’re going through right now, you mean?”

“ _Ugh_. I s’pose so.”

“Was it… was it good?”

Fjord drops his hands and grins a slow, catlike grin. “Why so curious all of a sudden?”

Caleb blushes. “I’m… well, I envy you, I guess. That you… had that, with each other. It’s fine, honestly, just. I never would’ve expected the two of _you_ to…”

“It was good,” Fjord says bluntly, taking pity on his fumbling. “It was… really good. I’m not, y’know, the most experienced person. There was Sabien at camp, and on and off with him after when we were working his uncle’s shipyard, but. That didn’t really end great, and it was never…” His mouth twists as he says it, making it the words into parody, “ _the real deal._ ”

Caleb snickers a little bit in spite of himself. “So Molly popped your cherry?”

“I mean!” Fjord blusters and bumbles, and it’s so adorable that Caleb can’t help nudging forward between his knees to tousle his hair. Fjord seems to calm beneath his touch like a gentled horse, and Caleb trails an open hand down the back of his neck, delighting in the resulting shiver, the way Fjord leans into his hand. “He,” Fjord murmurs, fingers going white-knuckled where he grips his own spread knees for security, “he didn’t, um, _fuck_ me, if that’s what you mean. It was really very simple, and kind of messy, and I’m sure I did everything wrong and said all the wrong things but… it was nice. It felt _real_. More real than anything I’d done with Sabien.”

“You know,” Caleb says thoughtfully, “I do really, truly appreciate you telling me all of this, as your friend, but. It’s not really helping the, um. Jealousy factor.”

“Oh!” Fjord blinks up at him, nearly knocking his hand aside, and reaches out to grab Caleb’s hips. It’s not an overly-familiar gesture—all of them are pretty handsy with each other, grabbing limbs and sitting on bellies and eager to roughhouse at the slightest opportunity—but this particular moment feels different. Charged, somehow, with unspent energy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” Caleb interrupts. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder—he knows they’re hidden from the view of the restaurant window. It’s only paranoia, the whisper in the back of his head that says _you don’t deserve this._ And he is determined to stamp it out once and for all. So he leans forward, that last little bit, puts his hands on Fjord’s shoulders, and kisses him.

Fjord’s fingers seizing around his hip bones are the first things he registers, followed immediately by the hot, surprised exhale against his cheek. Then the kiss, too brief, but warm and honest. He tries to pull away and can’t—instead rests his forehead to Fjord’s, watching him for some sign of dislike or disapproval. Fjord just smiles and leans back in.

There’s just a little hitch, a hiccup of uncertainty, and then they’re kissing him in earnest, square on the mouth, hands gripping onto one another as if for dear life. Fjord is warm to the touch, though not as warm as Molly, and his chapped lips are fringed in the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow. Caleb sighs and relaxes into it, sliding his open hands down Fjord’s biceps.

It’s shallow at first, and fairly chaste. The tenderness of it curls a fist around Caleb’s heart. His head feels afloat with fireflies, besotted, charmed beyond all reason. Then Fjord makes a rough little noise in his throat and tightens his grip ever so slightly, and the cozy comfort tightens into genuine heat.

Caleb lets his lips part against Fjord’s, breathing him in. He still smells a little bit sweet from his milkshake. Caleb hums and lets his tongue well up shyly, tasting, and Fjord meets him halfway, hot and slick. Fire pools in Caleb’s belly and he inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” Fjord murmurs, breaking away. “Too much?”

“No! No, not at all. It was… good.” Caleb licks his lips, and Fjord’s eyes track the movement, golden and faintly reflective in the firelight. “We could do it again if you like.”

Fjord smiles crookedly and leans in. But he bypasses Caleb’s mouth and brushes a kiss to his cheek instead, then his ear. “I’d like that,” he whispers. “But I think we have company.”

Caleb draws a sharp breath and turns. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Molly standing stock-still at the corner of the diner, watching them. There’s a complicated look on his face, a grimace too quick for Caleb to parse; and then he turns and whisks away, his tail the last thing to whip back around the corner.

“Oh.” Caleb steals his hands back, icy with unexpected guilt. “I thought…”

Fjord’s brow puckers in a frown. “Yeah. So did I.”

Unprompted, Fjord’s phone buzzes loudly against the bottom of the truck, making them both jump. They look toward it in unison, reading the text notification there.

**Molly: _[enjoy. I won’t interrupt.]_**

Fjord scoffs quietly. “He wouldn’t be interrupting. I mean, unless I’m reading this whole thing completely wrong.”

Caleb shakes his head and leans against Fjord’s chest, more for comfort than anything. He recalls a moment shared between them years and years ago, in the early budding years of adolescence, when he’d nearly caught a chill swimming in the lake after hours and had to cuddle up next to his friend all night just to stay warm. It feels just like that, now, except Fjord’s chest is much broader, and the hand rubbing the bow of his spine is large and warm and unafraid. Fjord’s touch grounds him just like it always has, keeps him steady as he unravels the tangled spool of things in his heart.

“I think you were right,” he murmurs. “About what you said before, in the alley. He’s scared.”

“And so am I, for fuck’s sake. And so are you.” Fjord’s hand firms briefly against his back, pressing him closer. Caleb finds it far too easy to lean into it, to bury his nose in the crook of Fjord’s neck. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna try and hide the fact that I’m…” He trails off and takes a breath for courage. “I’m a bit head over heels for you.”

“And Molly?” Caleb asks, as warmth blooms in his chest like a tangle of flowers.

Fjord squirms a little in his seat. “Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t wrong, before—I’ve carried a torch for you for a while. But Molly… he’s a whole other thing. Living together on and off, it’s. It’s weird. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m really fucking fond of him, and yeah, he’s a brilliant kisser—”

“Good in bed?” Caleb teases, pulling back.

“Obviously.” Fjord wrinkles his nose with silent laughter and leans down to press their foreheads together. “I’m not sure I’m in love with him yet, but. It feels like I could be.”

Caleb runs his thumb over the back of Fjord’s hand. It’s a good hand, calloused and strong, but so gentle. Everything about Fjord is like that, strong, built for hard labor, but he steps so lightly, orbits his friends like a great big puppy, constantly delighted and overflowing with affection. Caleb tilts his head a little, letting their noses brush.

“In case I haven’t made it plain,” he whispers, “I’m a bit head over heels for you, too.”

A low, contented rumble emerges from Fjord’s chest. “Really?”

“Is it that hard to believe?” He takes a breath and quick, before he can second guess himself, leans in the last half-inch and kisses the edge of Fjord’s mouth. He rocks back again on his heels, heart racing. “You’re… wonderful, you know?”

Fjord grins a big, doofy grin and cups the back of Caleb’s head with his free hand, drawing him in for one more kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Valerie by Ra Ra Riot. 
> 
> HOO GOD I really hope this is an okay chapter... I chopped up a lot of stuff and reworked it and I think this chapter suffered the most, so if you liked it maybe let me know? Or if you didn't like it, what didn't you like about it? I personally hate when authors and showrunners ignore a cliffhanger from the previous chapter/episode for a little while (or altogether) but I promise this one is gonna get resolved.


	18. leave tonight or live and die this way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives in Zadash four months late with starbucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE NYC LIVE SHOW WAS AMAZING AND NOW I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS FOR THIS FIC!!!!!

_12 years prior. Jester._

“Who is _that_? And why is she so fancy?”

“Who wears _heels_ to summer camp?”

“Looks like somebody stepped off the church bus at the wrong station.”

Jester plastered a smile to her face and kept walking. She didn’t know where she was going, exactly—the directions the counselor had given her weren’t particularly clear—but she could see water glinting through the trees so she _had_ to be close. Right?

“Hey Pollyanna! You lost?”

She spun on her heel, trying to catch the holler in the act, but all she could see was a quad full of kids clustered in their premade cliques, tittering at her from behind their hands. _How gauche_ , her mother’s voice said in her head, quite clearly. Jester pursed her lips in what she imagined a _moue_ might be, and continued on her way.

She had almost made it to the treeline (and was trying not to think about what she would do when her kitten heels struck the softer ground beyond the gravel path) when a small blurred shape cannoned out of the woods in her direction. She stopped stock-still, unsure what to do—for a split second she almost called out, but by then it was too late. The shorter person ricocheted into her and together they went down in a heap, limbs going every which way. Jester’s skirt flipped up and one of her shoes went flying, but she couldn’t be bothered to look for it with the wind knocked clean out of her, laying on her back staring at the bright blue sky.

“Holy shitballs!” said a scratchy voice. A pair of wide yellow eyes blinked into view above her. “I’m so sorry, man, I didn’t even see you. Are you okay?”

Jester tried for a smile, but it was a bit wobbly around the edges. “Fine,” she wheezed, tugging ineffectually at her skirt. Her cheeks burned as she struggled to right herself—if she could only _escape_ all these eye on her, prying under her skin and buzzing at the back of her neck like flies—

“Here,” said the newcomer, holding out a hand. Hesitantly, Jester took it. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Nott. I like your shoes.”

Jester wobbled a bit, but stayed upright long enough to find her other shoe and slip it on. The person in front of her was even shorter than Jester, rangy and lean, with dark green skin speckled like a robin’s egg and a mat of long, wild dark hair that covered most of their face. “Um. Thank you. I like your…” She peered closer. “Mask?”

“Thank you!” Nott said delightedly, tugging on the elastic. “I made it myself. Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m kind of running from a couple of assholes who want to sit on me, so if we could speed this up…”

Jester stared at her, certain she’d heard wrong. “There are people who want to sit on you? Like, for fun? Or…”

Nott blinked. “Jeez, have you never left the house or something? You’ve heard of bullies, right? Jackasses who pick on people littler and dumber and weaker than them?”

“That sounds horrible.” Jester looked past Nott’s shoulder to the woods. Hoots and hollers were echoing through the trees like a pack of moneys were headed their way. “Are you talking about them?”

“Them’s the ones! Gotta go!”

“Hey, wait!” Jester said, spinning around to try and follow Nott—but her heel wobbled on the gravel and Nott was too quick, disappearing into the clumps of people scattered across the sunny grass. Jester blinked and her new friend was gone. “Aw, nuts.”

“Hey!” someone shouted behind her. They scrambled to a halt before they could collide with Jester, thankfully, and Jester turned round again, coming face to face with a lanky brown-skinned girl, all arms and legs, a purpling bruise beneath one eye. She looked about Jester’s age, maybe a scotch older, with dark hair cropped short and a blindingly white grin.

Jester bit her lip and tried to look coy. “If you’re looking for Nott I don’t know where they went,” she said contritely, putting on her fattest, poutiest lip. The girl heaved a sigh, hands planted firmly on her skinny hips.

“Dammit, she’s a wily one. Look, I’ll buy you an ice cream if you tell me where she went.”

“I’m being serious! I don’t know!” Jester insisted. “Anyway, if you’re really going to sit on her, I don’t think it would be very nice of me to tell you.” And she crossed her arms as primly as she knew how.

The other girl gave her a strange look, then burst into laughter. “She said we were going to sit on her? Hey, Fjord! Caleb!” She turned and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting to the two boys coming more slowly behind. They were as different from one another as night and day: one a stork-legged human, red-haired and befreckled, the other shorter and rounder and much, much greener. _Tiefling?_ Jester wondered hopefully to herself, but those hopes were dashed when she saw the nubby tusks and distinct lack of horns. “The new girl says she’s not gonna tell us where Nott is because Nott said we were gonna sit on her.”

“I _am_ gonna sit on her at this rate,” the half-orc puffed irritably, bending over a little to catch his breath. The human boy leaned against his friend to do the same and stuck out a hand to Jester.

“Hi, new girl,” he said, voice accented with Zemnian and the husky burr of early adolescence. “I’m Caleb. This is Fjord. And that’s Beau, don’t mind her, she’s rude.”

“ _You’re_ rude,” Beau snapped back, but she was grinning.

“We’ll buy you ice cream if you—” Fjord began, but stopped when he saw Jester already shaking her head, smiling in spite of herself.

“Is ice cream the currency of choice around here or something?”

“There’s not much else to bargain with,” Caleb explained with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. He flopped harder against Fjord until the half-orc pushed him away, grumbling.

“I don’t know what she told you, but we need to find her,” Fjord said. “She stole my frickin’ swim trophy! I worked hard for that!”

“She’s not gonna do anything to it,” Beau said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Just hide it for awhile until she gets bored and forgets, and then finds it again and sneaks it back into your things. I don’t know why you’re so worried.”

“Look,” Jester said desperately, cutting in before anyone else could get a word in edgewise, “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but I’m looking for the girls’ cabins. The Head Counselor said my stuff got dropped off there and I _really_ need to change out of these shoes before anyone else laughs at me.” To her horror, her voice was wobbling a bit by the end of her little speech. The other kids looked blankly at her for a second and then burst into a cacophony of sympathetic noises.

“Hey, don’t worry. I can take you,” Beau said, talking over Fjord and Caleb’s offers of assistance. “Don’t listen to the idiots, they’re just jealous of your style.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Jester tugged on the hem of her skirt and blushed at the ground.

“We’ll find Nott on our own,” Caleb said, clapping Fjord on the shoulder. “But come find us afterward and we’ll really get that ice cream, huh? To say welcome to the shitshow.”

Jester tittered, loudly, and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Just—you don’t seem like the type to swear.”

Caleb shot a meaningful look at Beau. “Yeah, well, _some_ people are a bad influence. Let’s go, Fjord, I think I know where she might have gone.”

“Catch you later!” Fjord said as they trotted away, at a much slower pace than Beau had been keeping before. The girl in question grinned at her.

“I mean it, you know. You’re super cute. There’s a whole look going on, it’s great.” She waved her hands loosely in Jester’s direction. “C’mon, I’ll show you to the cabins. First rule of camp, though? Sneakers. Or barefoot whenever possible.” She nodded to Jester’s feet. “Go on, kick those off.”

“But I’ll get my feet all dirty, won’t I?”

Beau gave her a strange look. “I mean, yeah. That’s kind of the point of being here. Getting dirty, making a mess, getting into all kinds of shit. Not _literal_ shit, you know, but like… meta, um, four-ical… whatever. Here, step on the grass, it’s super soft.”

At Beau’s gentle urging, Jester slipped out of her shoes to stand on the grass. It _was_ soft, as promised, warm from the sun and tickling lightly at the soles of her feet. She curled her toes and smiled.

“See?” Beau said proudly, as if she’d invented the idea. “Don’t worry, your feet’ll toughen up in no time running around with us.”

“With… you?” Jester echoed, hardly daring to hope. “You mean we’re friends now?”

“Sure! You’re what, fifteen?”

“Thirteen,” Jester corrected.

“Sweet, even better! Me too! Up top.” Beau held out her hand and waited. “You gotta just… just pop it… pop… there we go!” she crowed as she showed Jester how to smack palms. It stung a little bit, but there was satisfaction in the gesture all the same. “That’s called a high five. Are you like a princess or something? Lived in a tower all your life?”

Jester shrugged, ears burning. “I’m homeschooled,” she explained, and that seemed to be enough.

“That blows,” Beau said matter-of-factly. “Don’t worry, you’re in with us now, and we’re the coolest kids at camp. The Mighty Nein!”

“The what?”

“The Mighty Nein! It’s what we call ourselves, our little group.”

“There are _nine_ of you?”

“Oh fuck no—I mean hell no,” Beau said quickly as they walked together over the grass. “It’s Zemnian or something. N-E-I-N, means _no_. I don’t remember where it started really, but it’s just the six of us: me, Nott, Caleb, Fjord, Astrid, and Wulf. And now you! So seven! Just two more and it won’t even be weird.”

It was a little hard to follow Beau’s rapid explanation, but Jester let it wash over her, basking in the warmth of making a new friend. _I’m doing it!_ she thought to herself, nearly skipping with delight. _Maybe summer camp is gonna be okay after all._

* * *

_Present day._

The wind flies by in a delicate rage through the net of Caleb’s outstretched fingers as they drive north. The sun is setting beyond the driver’s side window, casting Jester into a darkened silhouette as she sings along to the radio, voice drowned out by the hum of tires on tarmac. It’s almost soothing, the constant dull roar, the rip of wind through his hair. It helps to drown out the thoughts swirling frantically, seismically around his brain.

Nott leans between the seats and tucks up against his side as one song bleeds into another and the distant skyline of Zadash grows sharper and more defined. Her fingers are rubbing something between them—a coin, or a shiny button perhaps. She peers out the front window with a dedicated wrinkle between her eyes. Concentrating.

Ahead of them, following her line of sight, Fjord’s rear lights wink in and out of focus as they coast through the hill country surrounding the city. Periodically Beau will stick her feet out the window until she gets restless and moves again, sticking out an elbow instead, or, memorably, most of her torso, until Fjord hit the brakes and made her sit back down. Behind them, sandwiching Jester’s little pink bug, is the Stormchaser, a good quarter-mile off as she chugs along. Slow and steady. Too far away to make out any details, and Caleb likes it that way. He needs a little space. A little open road, a little loud music to take the edge off.

Something nudges his hand, and he looks down in time to see Nott slipping something into it. The coin she’d been fiddling with. He doesn’t recognize it—it’s no currency he’s familiar with, at least—and a hole has been drilled into the center by industrious hands, leaving room for a thick brown cord to run through it.

“For you,” Nott says loudly over the wind and the radio. Jester’s voice dips and mellows out again, head tilted away just a little. Giving them privacy as best she can, bless her.

“Why?” Caleb slouches down a little so that their heads nearly knock together.

Nott shrugs. “Cuz I wanted to. And you looked—” She stops. Caleb slips the cord over his neck and lets the coin lay against his sternum, over his shirt. He raises his eyebrows. “I dunno, I just wanted to make you smile, okay? Forget it.”

Glum, she begins to push herself off to the back seat, but Caleb grabs her hand. “Hey. Thank you.” He dredges up a smile, and to his surprise it’s not entirely ill-fitting. “I love it.”

Nott squeezes his hand. They flash past a sign welcoming them to the Zadash proper, and Jester eases off the gas a little. They’re not in the sticks anymore.

The radio is turned down a little, and the wind softens, and as the sunset stains the sky a deep alizarin, their little caravan crosses the bridge into Zadash. The traffic is getting thicker, even at this hour, and Caleb pops the handle to lean his seat back all the way so Nott can busy her nervous fingers in his hair.

“We’re almost there!” Jester sing-songs, tip-tapping her fresh, homemade manicure against the steering wheel. She pats under the dash until he finds her phone and flips it over to land on Caleb’s stomach. “Be my navigator, Cay-leb, it’s time to earn your keep!”

Jester always keeps her phone unlocked. It’s a bad habit, in Caleb’s opinion; but maybe that’s Jester’s own fault, trickster that she is. He slides his thumb across the screen. Her background is a selfie, with Beau kissing her cheek. “Why am I navigating? Can’t you just follow Fjord?”

“I don’t trust Fjord’s sense of direction,” Jester says primly. “Therefore we must be prepared.”

“Fjord can like, tell direction by the stars or some shit, right?” Nott pipes up. Her claws prickle gently against Caleb’s scalp, sending tingles down his spine as he pulls up the address of their destination. The Leaky Tap Hostel. It came highly recommended by some of their old camp buddies, and Beau claimed to know the proprietor. The way she said _know_ makes him nervous, but it’s low enough on his list of current anxieties that he can ignore it.

“Do _you_ see any stars?” Jester demands. “It’s not even dark out.”

“Is it ever dark in the city?” Caleb muses.

“See? Right again.”

“All right, all right.” _Scritch scritch scritch._ “Are we going the right way, Caleb?”

Caleb squints at the little blue dot moving sedately on the screen. “Looks like.”

“Cool. See, Jes? He knows where he’s going.”

“Uh-huh. Well I still don’t trust him as far as I can throw him—and I _can_ throw him, okay, you _know_ my muscles are enormous—”

The radio hums to life again with another bit of classic rock that Caleb has never heard before, and it’s easy to drown her out, let the phone hit his sternum and his eyes fall shut as Nott plucks his hair into haywire little braids.

“You okay, Caleb?” Nott whispers beneath the cover of music and Jester’s idle chatter. That’s the great thing about Jester—she doesn’t require a response. Unless you have one to give, and then she’ll happily listen, but in the meantime she can just go all day. Caleb stares at the orange lights dribbling past over the ceiling of the car and sighs.

“I’m fine,” he lies. His lips are numb from the wind, and his fingers. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. “Why d’you ask?”

“Because you don’t _seem_ fine. I’m not stupid, Cay.” Despite the snippy tone of voice, Nott is infinitely gentle with his hair. “Did something happen when you went out to talk to Fjord? From the look on your face it was, uh. Not great.”

“It was not… not terrible, actually,” Caleb murmurs. And despite himself, he smiles to remember it.

He and Fjord kissed a little while longer before another text—this one from Nott—broke them apart, flushed and giddy. They straightened themselves out, getting collars to lay flat again and licking back wild tufts of hair, and returned to the diner with a healthy bit of space between them to settle their bills and round everyone up. Despite that space, Caleb felt like the last five minutes were scrawled in red ink all over his face. Jester had a knowing smirk; Beau made at least one gagging motion behind a napkin where only Caleb could see. And Molly… Molly refused to look at either of them, and just like that, the heady delight of what had just transpired melted away.

And now he’s here. On the cusp of something he doesn’t know how to handle. Feeling the weight of it pressing down on him like Sisyphus’s boulder, unrelenting. Even Nott, whose touch lingers fondly and with sympathy, isn’t enough to lift the anxious knot residing in his gut, and he doesn’t know how to tell her it’s not going to be enough.

_Why can’t this be easy? Why is nothing ever bloody easy?_

That’s how it used to be. Easy. Every summer, like clockwork. A short bus trip to the outskirts of Rexxentrum, as soon as he was old enough to ride by himself, then a train south to Trostenwald and the Moondrop Summer Camp. His parents had sent him on a whim that first year, when they were making big renovations to the house and needed a small, precocious boy kept out from underfoot. Caleb fell in love with the place and the people, and the rest is history.

“Are they fighting?” Nott asks suddenly, with enough vehemence that Jester’s single-minded patter trails off and she glances over at them with a wrinkle to her brow. “Molly and Fjord? Are _we_ fighting _them_?”

“No one is fighting anyone, Nott.” Caleb offers Jester a weak smile, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy her. “At least not that I know of. Today has just been… a weird day. That’s all.”

“Maybe they _are_ fighting,” Jester says sombrely. She turns down the radio a little, and though the wind still whips lightly through her hair, turning the tight coils into a puffy blue cloud, her soft voice is easy to hear. “I’m afraid that it’s because of me.”

“Aw Jess, I’m sure that’s not true—”

“But what if it _is_ , Nott? I, I shouldn’t have—at the diner—”

“It’s okay, Jessie.” Caleb reaches out and squeezes her elbow. “It’s not—it’s not that, I don’t think. I don’t know. It’s all very confusing.”

Jester sniffs loudly and shakes her head as if to clear it, making the silver bangles in her ears and horns glimmer in the last dregs of daylight. “I just wanted to tease them. They were sitting so close all afternoon at the diner—Molly’s tail was around Fjord’s leg! He only does that with _me_ when we’re flirting and being all… _you_ know.” She wiggles her fingers in the air.

“Getting ready to fuck?” Nott suggests bluntly.

Jester huffs loudly. “I mean…”

“You can say the word in front of me, I’m not a wilting flower. I’m _ace_.”

“I know, Nott.” Jester nibbles her bottom lip, eyes kept firmly on the road. At this angle, her lashes cast long, curving shadows across her cheek, and the orangey lights of the city smear across her blue skin like the sunset outside, oil paints swirled together at the edges of a vast reality. If there was ever a girl Caleb thought he could like, like _that_ , it would be Jester. She was pretty, and heartfelt, and also a bloody terrible gossip—Caleb could feel all his secrets swarming behind his teeth, fighting to get out, and it took a locked jaw to keep them back.

“Maybe they _do_ want to fuck,” Nott says in a curious tone. Caleb can’t help the subconscious flinch that wracks him, and Nott, her fingers buried in his hair, feels it. She peers at him upside-down, her eyes glowing a reflective yellow in the passing lights. “Is that what this is about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caleb growls.

“Yeah. That was _super_ believable.” Nott withdraws her hands and pats his cheek instead. “I’m not gonna force you to tell us anything, you know. You can stop lookin’ so scared.”

Jester glances at him out of her periphery, wide-eyed, before fastening her gaze back to the road. “Wait. Caleb, are you…? Do you—!”

“I kissed Fjord!” Caleb blurts out. He claps his hands over his mouth and then drags them down again, forcing the words out as Nott and Jester share wild, soundless expressions in the rearview mirror: “I mean, maybe he kissed me—I don’t know. Outside the diner. He. He and Molly, they had a disagreement, because…”

_Because they’re both in love with you? How fucking self-absorbed are you, Widogast?_

“Because?” Nott prods gently.

Caleb gives a soft hiccup and scrubs at his eyes. He’s not weeping, but it feel like he could be—throat all closed up like it’s been stung, eyelids burning and dry. “I overheard them talking. I spied on them, with Frumpkin, and they. They were talking about _me_.”

God, he shouldn’t be saying this, and yet he can’t help it. It feels so good to spill it out into the cool night air. Nott is quiet but affirming, her hands gentle as they rub his shoulders, and Jester is practically vibrating in her seat but she’s holding her tongue for once, knuckles nearly white around the steering wheel. He barks out a shattered laugh and lets the wind whisk away the first trickle of moisture that beads at the corner of his eyelid.

“I’ve had a crush on Fjord forever, I think,” he whispers. “And Molly, um, Molly too, pretty recently. But you know, everyone was sort of already involved, and I. I’m not experienced, I don’t really _do_ … dating. And things. I didn’t want to step on any toes or make things weird, but. Fjord likes me back. And Molly likes me too, and also Molly kind of took Fjord’s virginity last year? I don’t know, that part was unclear.” He laughs again, lighter this time.

Nott grins and tweaks his ear. “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty sweet setup, I don’t know what all the angst is about.”

Caleb scoffs. “ _Angst_. I just. I don’t know. There’s so much to, to feel and to say—and I don’t know if there’s stuff maybe I _shouldn’t_ say. And Molly is… I don’t know. He’s unhappy, I think.”

“Molly is _really good_ at sharing,” Jester says quickly. “So if you’re worried about that—”

“I mean. I don’t know if it’s that.” Caleb tucks his hands close beneath his arms to keep them warm and tries to think. “He came out and saw me and Fjord kissing, and he got really weird. He’s been avoiding me all day. And now he’s riding in the Stormchaser with Yasha instead of up with Fjord—he even kicked Beau out to do it.”

Jester gasps and sits forward in her seat. “He is probably talking to Yasha all about it! I need to get her to tell me everything! Nott, pass me my phone!”

“You are _not_ allowed to text while you drive, sweetcheeks,” Nott says, although she _does_ snatch the phone from where it had been lying on Caleb’s chest. He makes a weak fumble for it, but she’s too quick. “Ah, ah, ah. This is for your own good. Jess, what do you want me to say?”

“Text Yasha!” Jester hollers. “Ask her if Molly is in love with Caleb!”

“He is,” Caleb mumbles, red-cheeked from more than just the wind. His heart rate is beginning to pick back up again but not in a bad way. The weight is suddenly gone, lifted out of his hands. Nott and Jester will take care of it. They’ll make everything feel right again.

“Okay then ask if Molly is okay and if he is upset and if he is in love with Fjord!”

That much Caleb isn’t certain of, so he holds his tongue as Nott taps the message out. She shows him the screen afterward. It’s pretty much verbatim, with the addition of several colorful emojis.

“What do you think?” she murmurs.

“You’ve cracked it. You’ve hacked the Jester code.”

“Ha! I knew it was good. Ooh, look, she’s typing back!”

“She’s _driving_ ,” Caleb realizes with a sudden kind of horror. Then—

_.yasha has added molly.t to this chat._

**Molly: _[i love you dearly, my sapphire, but it’s not any of your business xoxo]_**

“Boo!” Jester shouts when Nott relays the message. “Tell her that’s stupid! I want to _know_ , and so does Caleb. Tell her that Caleb is crying and he wants to kiss Molly—”

“Jess,” Caleb says sternly.

“How’s this.” Nott sticks Jester’s phone in front of him.

**Jester: _[it’s just that caleb is very sad and i’m worried about everyone]_**

**Jester: _[this was supposed to be a fun trip :(]_**

Then, quite suddenly, Jester’s phone begins to ring in Caleb’s hand. The ID picture is a bunch of violets laying on a rock, but Caleb has a terrible feeling that when he answers, it’s not going to be Yasha on the other end.

Before the thing can ring anymore—or before Caleb can lose his head entirely and pitch it out the window—Nott grabs the phone from his hand and answers it. “Hello, you have reached the office of Miss Jester Lavorre, Esquire. Miss Lavorre is currently indisposed, may I take a message?”

“Hello Nott,” Molly’s voice says flatly on the other side. The phone isn’t on speaker, so the connection is a little faded and frizzy, but Nott is perched close enough to Caleb’s ear that he can hear just fine. “Was that you texting just now, then?”

“Mayyyybe?”

“Oh good, then I feel no guilt when I tell you, unequivocally, to shove it. I know you’re the mom friend, but this isn’t something you can just poke your nose into and fix.”

“Well you’d better fix it yourself then, and quick,” Nott snaps back. “This whole trip is already a clusterfuck, and you’re just making it worse.”

Before Molly can say anything more—and before Caleb can reach for the phone in some desperate bid to broker peace—Nott hangs up. She practically throws the phone at Caleb and dives into the back seat again, scowling. Jester glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

“That seemed to go well,” she says hesitantly. “Um.”

“It’s the truth! Molly’s being all dramatic for no reason!” Nott insists. “Why doesn’t he just _talk_ to you?”

“Because he’s scared,” Caleb whispers. He shuts his eye and thinks, ruefully, that he can’t really blame him.

* * *

The Leaky Tap Hostel lives up to its name. It’s mostly functional, mostly clean, and run by a variety of colorful characters, mostly kids working their way across the country to see as much as possible before the reality of adulthood hits. Caleb can relate. His graduate degree is _supposed_ to sort of be a job all on its own, but right now it’s the last thing on his mind.

He claims the last ground-floor bunk and collapses onto it face-first. It’s only seven in the evening, but it feels much later. Being squeezed into Jester’s bug did a number on his back—he can feel his spine complaining just lying there. He rolls over onto his back with a groan and tries to arch his spine to pop it, but it just flares with heat and he subsides, muffling a curse into his palms.

At least the dorm is mostly deserted at this hour. Nott and Beau barely took the time to lock their bags up before disappearing to the bar downstairs, and everyone else seems to have scattered, eager to take the opportunity for some solo time. There’s a random kid asleep in his bunk at the end of the row, but apart from that, Caleb is alone. He decides to take the chance and summons Frumpkin. There was a sign that said no pets, but Frumpkin technically isn’t a _pet_ … he has the papers to prove it, but if someone actually challenges him he won’t fight it. He’s not in the mood.

The door creaks open and Caleb tenses, trying to hide Frumpkin in his arms—but it’s only Molly. Caleb tries not to look at him, doesn’t want to seem like he’s _staring_ , and boops noses with Frumpkin instead, now perched like a loaf on his chest. But his peripherals can’t help themselves and so he sort of is looking at Molly anyway. He looks… haggard. But he smiles a little when he sees Caleb there with his legs hanging off the bunk and Frumpkin on his chest, and he hitches his satchel over one shoulder and makes a tentative step or two toward them. So Caleb meets his eyes over Frumpkin’s ears and smiles back.

“Hey,” Molly says, scuffing his toe against the bunk frame. “Didn’t I see something about pets…?”

“Frumpkin’s not a pet,” Caleb enunciates clearly. “He’s an emotional support animal.”

Frumpkin rumbles his agreement and the tip of his tail flicks against Caleb’s hip. Molly’s smile slips a little. “Yeah. I know. He does a great job, too. Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.” He turns, making to move off, and Caleb stretches out quick to poke him in the back of the calf with his toe. “Hey! What was that for?”

“Do you want to hold him?” Caleb asks. For a second he wrestles with himself, and then he adds, perhaps too bluntly, “You look like you need it.”

Molly looks startled for a second, then coughs out a strangled laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

Caleb shrugs as best he can lying down, and gives Frumpkin a prod. _Go to him._ Frumpkin gives him an unimpressed look (he excels at them) but gets up and goes to sniff at Molly’s outstretched knuckles.

“I’ve… I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually,” Molly says, staring intently at Frumpkin as though he’s never seen him before. Frumpkin sits at the edge of the stiff mattress, tail curled politely around his paws, and allows Molly to stroke the top of his head. “Do you mind? Is it… a bad time?”

“No, it’s okay.” Caleb shifts a little and his spine complains viciously, so he settles for an awkward reclined position, hands folded on his stomach and chin tucked to his chest so he can give Molly his full attention. “My back’s kinda shot from the car ride, so. I’m at your disposal.”

The corners of Molly’s lips pull a little, like he’s not sure if he should smile. “I mean, I don’t want to trap you here, listening to me prattle on…”

Caleb doesn’t know what to say, so he takes a page out of Frumpkin’s book and just blinks at him. Waiting.

Molly sighs. “Okay. Well. I don’t really know how to say this in a pretty way, because I’m tired, and it’s been rattling around in my head for so long I’m not sure it makes sense anymore. And Nott told me I have to fix this, and she's probably right, damn her. So. I… have feelings for you. Romantic ones. And it’s pretty fuckin’ inconvenient, I have to say, because I know I’m not, erm, necessarily your type. And if it was just a silly crush it would be fine, I’ve had those before, but it’s. It’s growing, and it _hurts_ , fuck, it hurts more than I thought it would and it _shouldn’t_ , I’m happy for you and Fjord but I—” He stops to take a breath in the midst of the tumultuous rush, and stops talking altogether. His hand where it scritches beneath Frumpkin’s chin is shaking a little. “I didn’t mean for it to get this messy,” he whispers at last. “I’ll try to. To move past it. I might, um, take off for a little bit, actually… there’s some ink I’ve been meaning to get, and maybe it would be good for me to get some space. Give you room to, y’know, do your thing without worrying about me.”

This is worth the pain of sitting up for. Though he feels like he’s been run over by a truck, Caleb pushes himself upright and reaches out, taking Molly’s hand in his. Frumpkin butts his head against their twined fingers and Molly laughs wetly.

“Fuck. Sorry.” He swipes at his cheeks with his free hand. “Didn’t mean to get all emotional. I’ll just, um, put my stuff down and—”

“Molly.”

“Mm?” For the first time since his rambling, helter-skelter confession, Molly meets his eyes. His nose is a deep plum color, and his eyelids are slightly puffy, but apart from that it’s difficult to tell that he’s teetering on the precipice of tears.

“I… I understand if you still want to leave. But.” Caleb turns the words over in his mind, trying to make sense of them. Trying to make sense out loud. “I’m, I’m sorry. I’m really new at this sort of thing. I didn’t expect to… I mean, you know me, I’m pokey and boring and kind of messed up, I don’t… date, or, or have this kind of thing… happen to me.” He licks his lips nervously, quietly relieved when Molly—for once—doesn’t interrupt to disagree with him. “I don’t really know how this is done, but… me maybe being with Fjord doesn’t have to, um, preclude… me and you?”

Molly squints a little and finally lets Caleb drag him by the wrist down to sit on the bed. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you’re not my type. Um. I’m not sure where you got that from, because that is… definitely not true.” He exhales a little self-deprecating laugh through his nose. “I’m queer as fuck, Molly. I’m really fucking anxious about everything, and labels kind of confuse me sometimes, but. You’re really definitely my type.”

“Oh.” Molly has dropped his eyes to their joined hands, just resting on the cheap cotton coverlet. His tail, twitching madly behind him, is the only clue Caleb has to his mental state. Then the plum shade on his nose begins to spread across his cheeks, and up to the tips of his ears, and Caleb knows, with no small degree of glee, that he’s blushing. “ _Oh_.”

“I really, seriously don’t know what I’m doing. I cannot stress this enough,” Caleb says, squeezing Molly’s hand. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to… y’know. Give it a go. Whatever that looks like.”

Molly’s mouth works in silence for a little bit before the words come out, like a poorly-dubbed film. “I just… I didn’t think I was, er, invited. So to speak.”

“Molls,” Caleb says, borrowing Fjord’s favorite nickname. It works—Molly perks right up, startled out of his slump, and his tail curls up briefly at the tip. “You _are_ invited, of course you are. How could you not know that?”

Molly’s pretty nose crinkles up in a smile. “Mr. Caleb, I never pegged you for the polyamorous sort,” he says lowly, a little strained at the edges.

And then, because Caleb has no sense of timing, he blurts out, “Well maybe you’d like to peg me a different way, then.” Which is when his brain catches up with his mouth and he covers his face with both hands, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “ _Gods_ that was terrible, I’m so sorry—”

Molly’s face cracks into a ridiculous, disbelieving smile that morphs quickly into wheezing laughter, and leans his forehead against Caleb’s shoulder as he giggles helplessly. “Fuck, Caleb, that was awful.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It just… came out.”

“Clearly I’m a terrible influence on you.” Molly pulls away, wiping moisture from his eyes, but he’s sitting a little closer now, knees bumping as they recover themselves.

Caleb reaches out and lays a careful hand on his thigh, low down enough not to be interpreted as salacious. “Hey you.”

“Ja, ja?”

Caleb snorts. “Cute.” There’s a stray curl flopping over Molly’s forehead, nearly tangling in his long violet lashes. He reaches up to brush it away and lets his hand linger on Molly’s warm, smooth jaw. Molly’s eyelids drop to half-mast. “Will you come here?”

“I _am_ here,” Molly whispers.

“And you’re staying, ja? You’re not going anywhere?”

Molly wrinkles his nose. “If you really want me to stay I suppose I can make it work.”

“Good.” Caleb considers him a moment, then leans in and brushes a kiss to his cheek. He sits back and takes stock. “Was that okay?”

Molly blinks rapidly, like he’s dizzy, then looks to his hands folded in his lap. “I—yes. Yeah, that was okay. It was good. But…”

“But?” Caleb drops his hand, just in case, but Molly leans closer to bump their shoulders together.

“I dunno. I feel weird doing this without Fjord here.”

“Doing…”

“ _This_.” Molly swipes his arms in a circle, encompassing the whole of the room and them inside it, cocooned within the vast white walls while the city hums on outside without a care.

A silly thought occurs, and Caleb fishes around for his phone. He taps out a message and holds it in his lap. He doesn’t have to wait long.

**Caleb: _[is it ok if i kiss molly a little]_**

**Fjord: _[if he’s amenable, i’m amenable]_**

“See?” He holds out his phone for Molly to see, and his phone buzzes again in his hand. Molly’s eyebrows lift toward his hairline.

“My goodness. I didn’t know he had a voyeuristic streak.”

Face burning, Caleb snatches the phone back to read the last message.

**Fjord: _[take pics ;)]_**

“Um.” Caleb flips the phone face-down, too embarrassed to meet Molly’s eyes. “I’m… pretty sure he was joking.”

“Right.” Molly’s voice is warm with amusement, as warm as his hand when he slides it into Caleb’s hair to push it behind one ear. It’s a bit of a dandelion puff right now, blown every which way by the wind, and Molly’s fingers against the fresh shave underneath sends tingles down his spine. “I was kind of talking about… this whole conversation that apparently needs to happen. But. It’s nice to know we have his blessing.”

Caleb nods, smiling like a fool at his hands where they twist nervously in his lap. He wonders if he should retreat, give Molly some space, physically and otherwise. He feels weirdly paralyzed in spite of Fjord’s apparent ease with the situation. Now that everything's out in the open, mostly, the suspense hangs over him like a distant train barreling toward the wrong end of the tracks. The lever is in his hands, but he’s terrified of making the wrong move. Saying the wrong thing.

But Molly’s hand finds his, and soft lips touch his cheek, and Caleb shivers, pleasantly warm with their knees pretty together and their hands tangled on the coverlet. This close he can make out the laugh lines engraved at the corners of Molly’s eyes, see the glisten of saliva on his lower lip where he moistened it with his tongue. And his eyes, long-lashed and heavy-lidded, watching Caleb watch him.

It feels natural to lean in and kiss him. It’s a world of difference from the one they shared that morning—and fucking hell, Caleb can’t believe it’s only been the space of a day since Molly kissed him outside the bathhouse. Since he first learned the taste of cloves and lip balm melted in the sun. This already feels familiar. He lets his lips part a little, and the shallow kiss grows damp like the sweaty tangle of their hands. There’s no tongue, not yet, but Caleb sucks on Molly’s lower lip a little and he has to remember to puff hot breaths through his nose when he starts to get light-headed.

The kiss ends without finesse or fuss. There’s a moment where Caleb hovers on the cusp of pressing close again—but then Frumpkin sneezes, bringing him back to the present, and he remembers where he is: on a flat hostel bunk in a mostly-empty dorm where anyone could walk in at any time. So he subsides, stifling a foolish smile at the sight of his fingers laced with Molly’s.

“So,” Molly says after a minute, “you said your back is fucked up?”

“Oh! Yeah, kind of. I think I need to crack it or something, but it hurts when I try…”

“I’ve been told I’m good with my hands,” Molly says, sort of amused and self-deprecating at the same time. “Maybe a good old-fashioned back rub would help? And that’s not a euphemism.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Caleb assures him. He can’t deny the idea of Molly’s hands on him is… very nice. And if it works the kinks out of his back, that’s just a bonus. “I’d like that. If, if you want to.”

Molly shrugs easily. “Wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Caleb nods and plucks at the collar of his shirt. “Should I…”

“Whatever you want. On or off, doesn’t really matter.”

Caleb thinks about his bony torso, weirdly pale and freckly, and shakes his head. “I’ll keep it on I think. But you can, you know.” His cheeks are burning again. “Just do whatever you need to do.”

“Copy that,” Molly murmurs. He picks up Frumpkin and cradles him to his chest while Caleb situates himself on his belly, grateful for the chance to bury his too-warm face in the hostel pillow. After a moment or two, Frumpkin is deposited next to his head and Molly nudges closer, spreading his hands between Caleb’s shoulder blades. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Caleb is braced for pain, but Molly is incredibly gentle with him. At first it’s just light strokes over his shirt, getting him accustomed to the physical contact; then he starts working his palms up and down Caleb’s spine, feeling out the stiff parts. Caleb barely notices when the tight spot cracks and fades out into a pleasant warmth, too caught up in the pressure of Molly’s fingers marching toward his sacrum.

Molly gives him a little time to get used to it before slipping his fingers under the hem of Caleb’s shirt. For a brief moment, so brief it’s hardly more than an inhale of surprise, Caleb freezes up—then it’s just Molly’s hands on his lower back, firm and businesslike, and he relaxes again with a little hum.

“Doing all right?” Molly asks. His voice is soft and closer than Caleb expected, quite near his shoulder. He turns his head on the pillow and he can make out a smudge of purple at the edge of his vision, reclining just barely into his line of sight.

“Ja. Doing great.” He shivers as Molly presses more firmly against a sore spot, almost like a reward. He hasn’t noticed until now, but the thick, laconic heat winding through his veins is making itself known between his legs; he’s right on the cusp of needing to reach down and rearrange things to keep from getting uncomfortable. He wonders if he can get away with it without Molly noticing, and dismisses it out of hand. Molly is terrifyingly observant when he wants to be, and right now Caleb can feel the razor-sharp sting of his focus like a blade against his skin.

“Good.” The word is whispered nearly against his ear, and then soft lips press against his nape. It feels like an electric shock and he flinches, a tiny sound escaping him as his fingers form fists against the sheets.

“Cay?” Molly whispers.

His mouth feels heavy and slow, eyelids weighted down even as his heart races double-time inside his chest. “C’mere, Molls. Please.”

“I _am_ here,” Molly says again, laughing a little. But he gets on his knees beside the bed so that their heads are of a level with each other and traces a soft hand through Caleb’s hair. “You’re so lovely when you’re flushed like this, my dear.”

Caleb aches in silence. If they were alone maybe he would be brave enough to pull Molly up onto the bed with him, to lay with their legs entwined and cheek to cheek. But it’s a shared space—the person sleeping at the other end could wake up at any moment, and Caleb’s ground-floor bunk is hardly the most auspicious place for a quick cathartic tumble. So he just pulls Molly’s hand out of his hair and brings it to his mouth, kissing the palm and then each finger.

“Sweetheart,” Molly says, and smiles.

“Ja?”

“You look flustered.”

Caleb groans and shoves his face back into the pillow. “I _am_ flustered,” he mutters clothily. Molly’s chuckles reach his ears in spite of his burrowing, followed by a slow, spiraling drag of fingertips down his spine beneath his shirt.

His phone buzzes next to his head suddenly, startling him out of his lassitude. It’s from Nott. _**[we’re going to the hot springs!!!!! U should come!!]**_

“The… hot springs?”

“Oh!” Molly says, withdrawing his hand. “Yeah, the Zadash hot springs! Are they going? We have to go, c’mon, it’ll be really good for your back.”

“ _You_ are really good for my back,” Caleb mutters, but he pushes himself up onto hands and knees, trying to shake off the arousal like sifting sediment to the bottom of a slow-moving river. He gives himself a subtle adjustment as he climbs off the bed, and if Molly notices he doesn’t say anything. Just smiles that damnable smile, sweeter than it has been in a while, as they move to get changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so fuckin tired so this is barely edited pls forgive <3  
> track is "fast car" by tracy chapman


	19. i might be a prototype, but we're both real inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes to the hot springs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey what's that? A rating change? hmmmmmmm ...not for this chapter, but the next ;)
> 
> no real warnings, but in the flashback beau and jester go skinny dipping (they're 16), no sex happens tho.

_9 years prior. Beau._

When a small blue hand touched her shoulder, Beau was already awake. She blinked her eyes wide into the darkness of the cabin and grabbed Jester’s wrist, grinning at the startled squeak she provoked.

“Shhh!” she whispered, sneaking another hand over Jester’s mouth. Jester licked her in retaliation and darted away. Beau hastened to follow.

She’d gone to bed in her clothes: shorts, socks, tank top. No training bra, because fuck that thing, and because Beau’s tits were hardly anything to speak of. The straps gave her a rash anyway. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail but she took a moment to tighten the elastic before shoving her feet into her sneakers and following Jester out into the night.

The sky was overcast with lacy clouds strung out like fluffy interconnected sheep, letting down just a little silvery moonlight. When Beau stood still and squinted up, the pale winks of stars coalesced into bright pinpricks, like someone on the other side of the sky had painstakingly bored needle-holes into the black heavens. The wind was cool on her tongue and her blood was restless.

She wanted to run, so she did. She ran through the wet grass and across the gravel path and down between the dark trees to the lake. Chest heaving, she sponged along the sandy beach until it wasn’t a beach anymore, but a thin strip of sand curling inward to a little cove, shielded from the buoys of the swimming hole by thick stands of poplars. There were little tracks in the sand in front of her, perfectly spaced, barefoot: Jester. Always two steps ahead. Chest full, Beau jogged around the corner and nearly fell over.

Jester was in the midst of pulling off her nightdress. It was white and frilly, and made her glow like a ghost in the night. Then she took it off and dumped it into a pile on the sand, and shimmied out of her underwear, and there she was. Soft and creamy blue in the starlight, nearly invisible against the dark woods. She turned, smiling, and Beau averted her eyes.

“C’mon, Beau, let’s go!! The water’s really warm!”

They were perfectly alone, but Jester was still whispering. She turned on her heel, tail swishing behind her, and began to dabble in the shallows. Beau let herself look as she toed out of her sneakers. Jester’s back was a smooth, soft curve, her bum wide and a little flat, her shoulders sprinkled with dark freckles. She was the night sky, artless, clever, sprawling. Beau swallowed and pulled off her shirt.

She felt drab and pokey by comparison, all elbows and knees—she’d shot up another couple inches after her initial growth spurt a few years ago and hadn’t really filled out anywhere else to make up for it.

Beau covered her insecurities by dashing into the water. It was warmer than the air, so she dove right in, letting the dark water weave through her hair and swirl around her limbs before popping out again.

Jester was only knee-deep. Her nose was all scrunched up, droplets of water clinging to her thighs and wrists where she was bent forward swirling her fingers in the water. “It’s _cold_ , Beau…”

“You just said it was super warm!”

“Yeah well I changed my mind! It’s colder underneath.”

“You gotta just jump in all at once,” Beau cajoled. “I promise it’ll be better that way. Just get it over with.”

“Uuuuughhhhh. Fine!” Pinching her nose and squeezing her eyes shut tight, Jester went stiff as a board and fell face-first into the water. The resulting wave crashed right into Beau, who spluttered and wiped the hair back from her face. When Jester burbled up to the surface again, her hair was still thick and curly but weighed down with water, all tangled around her horns like seaweed. Beau cackled.

“Come here, your hair’s all crazy.”

“Oh noooo fix it fix it!” With floundering steps, Jester scooted along through the dark water until they were face to face. Beau could have stood up and the water would only reach her ribs, but on Jester it was collarbone-height. The little red jewel she always wore around her neck sat neatly against her wet sternum. Beau coughed.

“You wore your necklace swimming?”

“I never take it off,” Jester said, perfectly serious. She winced only a little as Beau carefully detangled her hair from her horns. Small white teeth sank into her lower lip and Beau had to drag her eyes away.

“Does it, like, symbolize something?”

“Yes, it’s for my Momma. Did I never tell you about her?”

Beau shook her head mutely, too intent on a coil of hair trapped in Jester’s earring to respond.

“Oh! Gosh! Well… it isn’t a _secret_ , exactly, but some people are weird about it, you know, because she is kind of famous, and I’m not really supposed to talk about her to strangers? But _you’re_ not a stranger, Beau.” She smiled and Beau’s heart thu-thunked against her ribs. “She is a model and a professional courtesan and she is the most beauuuutiful woman in the whole world!”

“Well,” Beau heard herself say, thickly, as though through a far-off tunnel, “if she looks anything like you she’s gotta be.”

“Aw! Beau!” Jester squinched her nose up again. Beau wanted to kiss it. “You’re just the sweetest. Anyway, her stage name is the _Ruby of the Sea_ , so I wear a ruby always to remind me of her, and she wears a sapphire. Because she calls me her _little sapphire_.” Jester sighed, part whimsy, part wist. “I miss her a lot. She wants me to get a really good education so she sends me abroad for school but… writing letters and making phone calls isn’t really the same.”

Beau wasn’t sure she’d ever heard of the Ruby of the Sea, but Jester was from the Menagerie Coast, where Beau had never been, so maybe her name was bigger there. She pulled the last strand of hair from Jester’s horns and gave her head an awkward pat. “That blows, Jess. But she obviously loves you very much, so that’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah.” Jester’s eyes grew knowing, and a little sad. “Have you talked to your dad at all lately?”

Beau shook her head. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk to him. Last year was _hell_.”

“You liked some parts of it, right?” Jester offered hopefully.

“Yeah, the combat training is pretty cool. Doesn’t do much good if I can’t use it, though, so like what’s the point? And the rest of the time it’s just stupid books and lectures and essays. _Ugh_.” She watched as Jester’s face fell and plastered on a smile. “But that’s boring to talk about. We have a whole summer ahead of us. What kind of shit are we gonna get into?”

Jester grinned and sank a little lower in the water. “Skinny dipping _ev-er-ry night_ , of course!”

“Uh-huh. And what else, ya little perv?”

“Hey!” Jester pouted. “I’m not a perv. It’s not bad to be naked, you know.” As if to prove this, she surged out of the water to lay on her back and spread her arms out wide. Her butt still sank a little, but the rest of her bobbed on the water like a squishy blue buoy. Beau averted her eyes.

“I know. Just… doesn’t it feel weird sometimes? We’re not kids anymore. We’ve got… uh… _bits_.”

Jester’s sweet voice pealed with laughter and floundered where she floated, submerging herself again. “Are you _embarrassed_ , Beau? You are very nice to look at if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Beau protested, “I just. I dunno.” She stared at the surface of the water a bit before blurting out, “Did you really fuck Molly?”

“Whoa.” Jester’s shocked face broke immediately into giggles. “Strong words, Beau…”

“That’s not a _no_.” Peeved, Beau pushed back a little, tucking her legs up to tread water instead of sticking her toes in the mucky pond bottom. “Sorry, I just. I. Never mind.” And she ducked underwater and stayed down there as long as she could, blowing giant bubbles up to the surface that glistened in the moonlight when she squinted through her lashes at them.

Before her lungs even properly ran out of air, she felt hands on her head, patting her hair and shoulders. Reluctantly, she let herself be pulled back to the surface, and Jester’s face when she emerged made her regret her stubbornness. “Beau, please don’t do that again, you freaked me out!”

“I’m sorry,” Beau muttered. Jester’s hands on her upper arms were like steel bands, preventing her from running, so she folded her arms over her skinny chest and waited.

“I did not fuck Molly, okay, but we _did_ sort of make out a lot. A few times. Um.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Who told you we… did the do?”

Beau bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t say. It was an accident, anyway, he didn’t mean to—”

“Fjord? Oh god, no, it was _Caleb_ , wasn’t it.” Jester’s face scrunched up. “Oh dear.”

“He wasn’t, like, scarred by it or anything, from what I could tell,” Beau sighed, giving up on trying to be cryptic. “He was just shocked more than anything. Maybe a little jealous, but it’s Caleb, so he’s not gonna do or say anything about it to _Molly_.”

“Oh boy,” Jester said quietly, after a while. Her hands had loosened on Beau’s arms and were now just holding her gently, warmer than the air but about on par with the water. Beau wanted to lean into her softness. Beau wanted to kiss her, and the anxious fury of that desire burned like a small star in the pit of her stomach. “Maybe I should say something to Moll—”

“No don’t! Caleb would hate that, you know he’s a super private person.”

“Yeah.” Jester’s mouth pulled unhappily at one corner. “And what about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Are you jealous too?” Jester asked her plainly. As point-blank as the feeling of a gun pressed to her nape—an experience Beau had once before and was not inclined to repeat.

“I’m—I, I don’t know. Maybe.” Her lips felt strangely numb. “I mean, I don’t mind if you want to kiss Molly, or bang him, or whatever. But. Um.” A crazed, cracked-edge laugh broke out of her chest. “I dunno. Maybe you want to kiss me too? Sometimes?”

Jester’s eyes were wide and liquid purple in the moonlight as she smiled and touched her tongue to her lower lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s be okay.” She cupped Beau’s cheek in one hand. Beau wasn’t sure when they grew this close, but her tits and Jester’s were brushing underneath the water and their noses were nudging shyly together. Beau shut her eyes and leaned into it.

* * *

_Present day_

The hot springs are just outside of Zadash, down a series of winding dirt roads that unspool like tangled thread under the starlit sky. There are no streetlights out here—the headlights of Fjord’s truck are the the only illumination for miles apart from the great orange glow of the city at their backs.

As soon as they roll to a stop, Caleb wriggles to the end of the truck bed and hops off onto solid ground. It seems to pitch beneath his feet a little, like the deck of a ship on a roiling sea, but Nott clings to his hand and keeps him steady until the illusion passes.

“All right?” she whispers in the kerfuffle of unloading. They haven’t had a moment alone since they arrived at the hostel, and it feels like an age has passed since then, but Caleb doesn’t have the time or words to explain how everything has changed. So he just squeezes her hand hard and nods.

“Ja. Everything is great.”

She peers closely at him. Whatever she sees with her darkvision must satisfy, because she nods and releases him to the chaos, going to make sure Jester has brought along the appropriate flotation devices _just in case._

“I know you don’t like water, Nott, but I _promise_ these are super shallow. I used to swim in them when I was your size and I could touch the ground with my head above water no problem!” Jester pats her own chest as if to demonstrate. “You’re gonna be _fine_.”

“I don’t know,” Nott says, already buckling a life vest around herself. “We’ll see. I’m not making _any_ promises.”

“We can sit on the edge and dangle our feet in, how’s that?” Caleb murmurs.

Truthfully he’s only half paying attention to Nott’s self-preservation methods. He’s caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and can see Molly and Fjord standing close together on the other side of the truck, heads bent as if in conversation. He clicks his thumb and forefinger together and sends Frumpkin over to wind around their legs—not listening in, just a reminder. Molly’s head shoots up immediately and looks toward him. He smirks when he sees Caleb watching and jerks his head as if to say _come join us._

Beau and Jester are already racing down the rocky path to the springs, and Yasha follows at a more leisurely pace, an enormous beach towel slung over her shoulder. Nott wields her flashlight like a weapon, circling it around before beaming it into Caleb’s face.

“You coming?” she says.

“Ouch! Yes, _arschloch,_ I’m right behind you.” He bats her flashlight away to splash brightly against the ground and sends up a few dancing lights. “Take these with you.”

“I thought you were _right behind me_ ,” Nott accuses, though she’s grinning with all her teeth.

“I will be, I promise. I just have to…” His eyes dart sideways without quite meaning to. Fjord is at least pretending to fiddle with something in the back of his truck, but Molly is leaning up against the cab with his arms folded over his chest, just watching, and Caleb can feel the heat already creeping up the back of his neck. Thank goodness it’s dark out. “Hey Nott.”

“Hey yeah?”

He squats down on his haunches. Nott isn’t always a fan of people doing that, but she’ll put up with it from him, especially when he’s imparting some juicy gossip that he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “Remember how you told Molly he needed to fix stuff, on the phone earlier?”

“Yeah.” Her brow puckers with uncertainty. “He’s not mad about that, is he? He bought me a drink downstairs before going to put his things away so I thought…”

Caleb shakes his head. “He took your advice, let’s just say.”

Nott’s eyes fly open wide. “Holy shit. Really? Like, he _talked_ to you, like a grown-up person?”

Caleb nods.

“And you talked to him back? And it _worked_?”

Nod.

“Holy fuck. Good on him. And you. And… all of you.” Her nose wrinkles suddenly. “You’re not staying back here to have sex before getting in the hot springs, are you? Because then I am _definitely_ not swimming tonight.”

Caleb chokes on an embarrassed sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a horrified groan. “No, no. Absolutely not, I will promise it to you right now.”

“Oh, god. Your accent’s getting thicker.” She reaches out and plasters the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re _burning_ , Caleb, are you all right?”

He shakes his head, smiling. “I’m fine. I’m… I feel a lot better than I have in a few days.”

“Well. Good.” She sighs, then grabs his collar and leans in to kiss his forehead. “Be careful. Be safe. And I _don’t_ mean like with dicks and things, I mean…” She jabs his sternum with her balled-up knuckles. “With _this_.” And then, before he can summon some kind of coherent reply, she turns on her heel and darts off down the path after the girls.

Nerves overtake him for a moment, and he postpones the standing up, the turning to face them. The talking. Instead he hunkers down and cups Frumpkin’s face in his hands when his cat trots over to him from beneath the truck, stroking his chin and the long, rumbling arch of his throat. Frumpkin burbles at him and shoves his head closer, closer, until his front paws are braced on Caleb’s shoulders and his flat, fuzzy cat-nose is shoving happily against Caleb’s. Caleb laughs and scoops him up, burying his face in his fur.

Nearby, braced against the hitch, Fjord gives a soft laugh. “Is this you puttin’ up a sign that says _No Fjord Allowed_?”

“He is hypoallergenic!” Caleb insists loudly, but he reluctantly sets Frumpkin back down and stands, brushing cat hair from his front with his hands and a bit of prestidigitation. “Better?”

Fjord sidles up to him, bashful as a modern cowboy, and slips a hand into one of the rear pockets of Caleb’s jeans. Caleb tries not to startle and fails—then leans into it. “Yeah. Much.” Fjord leans down, still a little shy, and seems to exhale with relief when Caleb hooks a hand around his nape and pulls him down into a kiss. Fjord’s hand on his ass tightens just a little when they break apart. “That’s a neat trick, by the way.”

“Trick? Oh, you mean…” Caleb wiggles his fingers and tries not to be alarmed at how easily the cantrip had come to him. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, thank you. Even if I don’t really need it, I appreciate the gesture.” Fjord smiles down at him, barely visible in the dimness. “Is everything sorted, then? With Molly?”

Caleb looks past his shoulder. Molly is still hovering near the truck, hands in his pockets, sort of looking at them askance, like he’s afraid to make direct eye contact. But when Caleb holds a hand out to him, he comes, tail twitching nervously behind him. He takes Caleb’s hand and Caleb pulls him in, tips his face up in invitation. With only the slightest glance at Fjord, Molly bends and kisses him.

It only takes a moment or two for things to get… heated. Fjord is still keeping him in place with a hand in his back pocket, and he seems content to watch quietly as Caleb winds his hands through Molly’s thick, silky hair and licks tenderly at his lower lip. Molly shudders against him and the stiffness in his frame subsides. Like a carefully-constructed dam beginning to crumble, he slides his hands up Caleb’s front, over belly to chest to shoulders, and curls the tips of his manicured fingers very gently against his arched-back throat.

“Bloody hell,” Fjord mutters, and they sort of jerk apart, as if caught red-handed. Fjord laughs. “I mean, don’t stop on my account. Fuck me, but you make a pretty picture.”

“I thought,” Molly says, voice thick, “you said you wanted to _talk_ , Fjord.”

“Hmmm. Did I say that?”

“ _Yes_. I _distinctly_ remember—it…” Molly’s voice trails off and Fjord’s thumb traces a soft half-moon where his palm cups Molly’s cheek. He licks his lips.

“What did you want to talk about?” Caleb asks. He’s mesmerized by the tender way Fjord holds Molly close, and closer—his breath catches in his throat when Fjord kisses him, his mouth still damp and soft from Caleb’s ministrations. Molly’s eyes fall shut as he succumbs. His lips part, and even in the darkness, Caleb can see Fjord lick into his mouth. More importantly he can _hear_ it. A slow, wet sound that tangles a fist deep in his guts and _pulls_.

“You—” Molly gasps when they part, and his smile slips, still pulling at his lips but bitten back as Caleb reaches up to take his face in his hands. “You’re sure? You—”

“Shut up, Mollymauk Tealeaf,” Caleb says, and Fjord laughs. “I can’t believe I’m the one who has to tell you this, but _stop thinking so hard_ and _kiss me_.”

“I just,” Molly says, and is drawn in, mouth clumsy and dry with spent laughter. Their lips slide askance of each other, very nearly a kiss but not quite _._ “I just want to make sure, I—I know this is new territory—”

“It’s been a long time coming, I think,” Caleb whispers in the in-between. _Kiss_. Molly’s lips are damp, now, warm and pliable against his own. He scratches lightly at Molly’s scalp and smiles at the full-body shiver that wracks his slender frame. “Hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe it has.” Molly sighs, forlorn, and kisses him one more time—lips trailing to the corner of his mouth, across his cheek, to jaw and ear and the tender beginnings of his throat. Caleb shivers. “We’re being… rude, I think.”

“Mm. Are we?”

Molly gestures with his chin to Fjord. Caleb turns, resting his temple against Molly’s sweat-licked breastbone, to see Fjord staring back unabashedly, pupils blown wide and his hands curved protectively around Caleb’s bony hip. He twitches a little at being caught, but doesn’t look away. Just smiles, and after a moment or two of heavy silence, gives Caleb the thumbs up with his free hand. Caleb smothers laughter in the curve of Molly’s neck.

“I don’t know, I think someone is enjoying the show.” To prove it, Caleb sucks a little mark into the side of Molly’s neck, heat coalescing down his spine when Molly hisses and leans into it.

“You are _both_ incredibly kinkier than I ever imagined,” Molly murmurs when it’s over. He lifts a hand to press against the hickey and lets out a small hum of pleasure. Caleb tries not to flinch at the spike of arousal that shoots through him at the sound. “Asking for pictures, watching your man make out with someone else—”

Fjord clears his throat roughly. “Does it count as voyeurism if all parties are… interconnected?”

“How d’you mean?”

Caleb meets Fjord’s eyes and gets a nod. “I mean… we haven’t really talked about it in great detail, but. I thought it was obvious we wanted to do this together. All of us.”

Molly licks his lips. “So you mean… not you two together and me on the side sometimes.”

“Absolutely not,” Fjord says firmly. “Unless you want to be. But, ah… forgive me if it’s presumptuous to say, but I get the feelin’ you’re kind of tired of bein’ on the sidelines.”

Molly’s face falls and he gives a tired little laugh. “You could say that. I mean, please don’t say anything of the sort to Jester. She’d feel terrible, and she really doesn’t need to. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“You wouldn’t know how to hold a grudge against her if it bit you in the ass,” Fjord says.

Molly snorts. “Would _you_? She’s utterly precious. Even when she’s being a complete idiot you can’t help but love her.”

“We won’t say anything,” Caleb promises. “That’s between you and her to sort out, if you want to.”

Fjord nods along. “I’m no expert in how this sort of thing works, but it seems good to keep, uh, some boundaries up.”

“The magic word,” Molly drawls. “You’re entirely right, of course. But I’m a little more curious about how this is going to… work. Or what expectations are, I guess. Let’s start there.”

Fjord tips his head toward the truck. “I set some blankets up in the back if y’all want to hop in and have a powwow. As long as the girls don’t come lookin’ for us we should be secluded enough. It’s hard to get a few minutes alone with this fuckin’ madhouse crew, so let’s take it while we can get it.”

“How thoughtful,” Molly murmurs, smiling. “And if we follow you into your witch’s hut, are we going to be distracted from discussing things like adults again?”

“I swear to behave myself,” Fjord says, and puts one hand over his chest. The other is still hooked into Caleb’s back pocket, which he decides to not mention loud. “Scout’s honor.”

They climb into the truck. It’s difficult, but Caleb makes himself sit crosslegged against the cab, plenty of space between in and the others. Molly does drape his legs over Caleb’s knees to stick his feet in Fjord’s lap, but it’s the thought that counts. And then, horribly, they both look to him. As if _he_ has any bloody clue what to say or do.

“Um,” he says, and lays his hands on Molly’s shins as if they were Frumpkin, curled in his lap for comfort. “Hallo.”

“ _Hallo_ ,” Molly says back, and laughs. “Sorry to put you on the spot, my darling, but you do seem to be sort of in charge here.”

“In _charge_?” Caleb squawks. “I’m not the one who fucked my best friend on a whim last year!”

“That’s fair,” Molly says ruefully. “You’re not upset about that, are you?”

“Not really. Only upset that I wasn’t there for it.”

Molly lets out a cascade of giggles and Fjord ducks his chin against his chest with a quiet grin. Molly’s legs are smooth under Caleb’s hands, and he can’t help petting them, running his fingers up and down Molly’s shins until Molly’s toes are curling in Fjord’s lap.

“I just,” Caleb says, and their shared laughter starts to dwindle. “I just want to be boyfriends. That has suddenly become my plan for this year. I want to travel, and study, and finish my thesis, and fall in love with you. With _both_ of you. Is that okay?”

Fjord lets out a slow, uneven breath. “Sounds pretty fuckin’ great to me. Um.” He digs his thumb into the arch of Molly’s foot and looks between them. “I’ve never done this before either, but I’m willing and eager to give it a try. An’ I’m not just talking about, um, fucking. Although that’s… on the table too, obviously. Depending on what y’all want.”

“I may need to take things slow,” Molly says quietly. “For the sake of the group and for the sake of us… figuring this out. But something tells me that won’t be a problem.”

“Slow is good,” Caleb agrees. His face is warm, but in the dark he feels brave enough to add, “Kissing it good, too. Really good.”

“ _Very_ good.” Fjord does something with Molly’s foot that makes him groan and Caleb’s breath comes a little shorter in his chest at the shifting weight of Molly’s legs in his lap, lean and smooth and touchable.

“You keep doing that and I’m going to embarrass myself by immediately retracting my _take it slow_ statement,” Molly warns, voice a little higher and more breathless than usual.

Fjord hums deep in his chest. “That such a bad thing?”

“I _did_ sort of promise Nott we wouldn’t have sex before getting into the hot springs,” Caleb admits. “So…”

“You’re no fun,” Fjord teases, but he releases Molly’s foot with a little pat-pat. “I s’pose we should be gettin’ on down there, before they send a search party after us.”

“And my back really does need a good soaking.” Caleb pats Molly, too, though it turns into more of a familiar squeeze of the thigh just above his knee. Molly is wearing short, slim-fitting swim trunks for the occasion, so there’s plenty of leg to grab, but he restrains himself from feeling Molly up too much and is rewarded with a heavy-lidded sideways smile and a quick kiss on the cheek that smells like peppermint lip balm.

“I’m gonna have a quick toke before I go down if anyone would care to join me,” Molly says, swinging his legs free of Caleb’s lap. The truck rocks on its wheels as Fjord hops down and then holds out a hand to each of them to assist.

“I’m good,” he says. “Designated driver. But I’ll wait with you if you like.”

Molly turns to Caleb, one eyebrow arched. Caleb nods. “Just a little, if you can spare it.”

“Oh, I can _spare_ it. I’ve brought me enough to last a while, and I don’t mind sharing. It’s more relaxing that way.” Molly rolls up a spliff with expert fingers and fumbles around in his bag for a lighter. Caleb stops him with a hand to his arm.

“Here. Let me.” He concentrates, a little lick of flame curls over the tip of his pointer finger. In its light, Molly’s face is softly-lit and delighted. He holds the spliff between his lips and leans in. It only takes the barest touch, and smoke begins to curl around his face. He pulls back, inhaling the cherry bright orange-red, and exhales. It’s a more mellow smell than his clove cigarettes. Pungent, but less acrid. He passes it over and Caleb takes a tentative puff or two before returning it.

It only takes a minute to finish it. Molly grinds the stub out beneath his sandal and holds out his hand invitingly.

The moon is beginning to climb into the sky as Molly leads the way down one of the many winding dirt paths spiderwebbing in every direction. There is a light breeze that keeps it from being too warm, but Caleb still shrugs out of his hoodie and ties it around his waist. Disturbed from his perch, Frumpkin’s claws dig briefly into his shoulder as the cat launches himself and lands neatly on all fours, tail tip twitching. After a moment or two gathering his bearings, Frumpkin gives an authoritative _miaow_ and trots off down the path.

“See?” Molly says. “He knows where to go.”

Caleb can hear the girls splashing and shrieking with laughter from here, but he brushes up beside Molly anyway, grazing his hand briefly across the small of his back. “C’mon then, before we lose him.”

Caleb takes the lead, barefoot and bareheaded under the open sky—his curly hair flaps against his forehead as he hops over pebbles and skirts thick clumps of dry grass. Coming along behind, Caleb can hear Fjord letting his sneakers scuff the ground, can hear Molly nudging into him and laughing when he trips Fjord up. It feels good. Cathartic. Like being a kid again, running roughshod through the woods, making mud pies at the swimming hole. In his memory, the shapes shift, and there is a small purple tiefling kneeling beside them, poking at bugs in the dirt. Something about it feels like it could have been true.

He smells salt and sulphur as they draw near, guided by the faint glow of the dancing lights Caleb sent out with Nott. Then they turn a corner and the hot springs come into view. The dancing lights make the water a milky blue-white that seems to glimmer like folds of starlight, frothing here and there with escaping gases. Jester is in the midst of a splash war with Beau, both of them in shorts and swim tops. Yasha sits a little ways apart, observing their antics with magnanimity, and Nott is squatting on rough stones, delicately dipping her fingers in.

“You’re alive!” Jester shrieks when she catches sight of them. Immediately she abandons her campaign against Beau and smacks the water with her arm, sending a swathe of warm water right into Caleb. He tries to grab Molly and shield himself from the worst of it, but it’s too late—his shirt is already soaked through.

“Ha! Get in, losers, the water’s fine!” Beau calls, and falls onto her back, burbling happily below the surface.

Fjord is already stepping in. He keeps his shirt on, but sits down delicately next to Yasha, sighing as the warm water creeps up the cotton. “S’nice. Don’t bother splashing me, I’ll fuckin’ kick your asses.”

Jester sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.”

Fjord shrugs. “So I’ve been told.” He puts his arms on the rocks behind him and leans back like its a couch and he’s reclining upon it.

Beau lifts her head suddenly as Caleb steps into the water next to Nott. “Do I smell weed?”

“Nope.” Molly drops his shirt to the ground and pops the _p_ on the the end of _nope_ at the same time. Beau groans and covers her eyes.

“Mollyyy, come on, can we not get naked? This isn’t a naked thing!”

“It’s a hot spring, Beauregard. You’re _supposed_ to get naked. I’m not going to sully my good binder with sulphur water.”

“Wait, we can get naked?” Jester chirps.

“It’s not _required_ ,” Caleb hastens to say. “But if you want to, I mean…. It’s dark out. Sort of.” He eyes the two dancing lights floating overhead and has an idea. He snaps his fingers. One of them blinks out; the other dims and floats down, down, until it submerges beneath the pool. The water lights up with a dim blue-green glow, milky-white enough with minerals that it’s still transparent, lending everyone a fair amount of modesty. Jester cheers.

“I guess if Jester and Yash take off their shirts I don’t mind,” Beau says with forced nonchalance.

Molly snorts and shimmies out of his binder—somehow, even though he started undressing first, Jester is already completely naked. “Tits to the wind!” he declares, and steps into the water.

“I don’t think I’m going to take my shirt off,” Yasha says slowly. “But like, if anyone else wants to, that’s cool.”

Fjord has a very strange look on his face—part embarrassed, part determined. He seems to stare very hard at Molly for a moment (Molly, oblivious, is showing Nott how to blow bubbles through a hollow reed), then at Caleb. Then he peels his half-sopped shirt off and squeezes it out before spreading it on the rocks conscientiously. Beau whistles.

“Damn dude, nice pecs. You guys are like the muscle twins over there.”

Fjord ducks his head and nudges Yasha’s arm. “Bet my biceps’re bigger than yours.”

“I’ll take that bet.” Yasha pushes her hair back and crooks her arm. The muscles in her arm arm and shoulder stand out stark white against her black tank top, glowing a little in the moonlight glimmer of the submerged globule.

“Hmmm.” Caleb leans forward a little, dragging his toes along the rocky bottom of the pool. “I dunno Fjord, she’s pretty jacked.”

Fjord sniffs and mimics her, arm to arm. He’s pretty solid, it’s true: his shoulders are broader than Yasha’s, and his barrel chest and sturdy, solid stomach are stark reminders of the manual labor he does for a living. But…

“Yeah sorry Fa-jordy, Yasha’s more jacked.” Jester does a belly-flop and Caleb covers his eyes, terrified her strappy pink bra is going to fall to pieces in the water. By some miracle it stays on, and Jester climbs happily into Yasha’s lap to give her bicep a kiss. “But are you as jacked as _me,_ Yasha?”

Fjord shoots Caleb a pained glance. Caleb grins and pats the rock next to him, and Fjord slowly scoots over, trying to avoid a callout.

“Hallo,” Caleb says when he’s within arms reach. He drags his wet hand through Fjord’s thick hair, exposing the white streak at his temple and rubbing his thumb in the shallow crease that’s developed between his eyebrows in the last year or so.

“Heya.” Fjord scoops one arm around Caleb’s bum and rests his head against his thigh. Across the way, Molly sits waist-deep in the hot springs and gargles water before spitting it in a thin stream through his teeth at Beau. Beau screeches and splashes him, and Nott yells at both of them not to get her wet. Caleb shakes with quiet laughter and feels Fjord nuzzle against his knee. “What’s so funny?”

“I dunno. Them. All of this.” Fjord’s hair is so thick and textured, a little bit coarse, very different from Caleb’s own. His fingers sink deep, forming a fist, and Fjord hums deep in his throat with appreciation. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Abso _lutely_ not,” Nott says loudly, and stamps her foot. Their fleeting private moment dissolves into thin air, but Caleb doesn’t mind. He has time. “Only if Caleb gets in first.”

Molly and Beau round on Caleb at the same time, eyes alight with identical flames of mischief. They would probably hate it if Caleb told them they were so much alike they may as well be twins, so he decides not to mention it.

“I didn’t bring my swim trunks,” he says, though it’s a lame excuse. He doesn’t know how to say _I was too distracted watching Molly remove all his horn jewelry in preparation to think straight_. Or even if he did, whether he could withstand the teasing that would inevitably result.

“Why not?” Jester exclaims. “You knew we were going to the hot springs!”

“I just…” His eyes skate to Molly, who is smirking at him through the wisps of steam. Caleb coughs and gets to his feet. “Fine. I’ll get in, but don’t make fun of my underwear, okay?”

“No promises,” Fjord mutters, laughing when Caleb kicks him gently in the shoulder.

“You don’t _have_ to, you know,” Nott says quickly, “I mean, don’t feel like you _have_ to get in—”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” He pops the button on his jean shorts and wiggles them down his hips, blushing as his dinosaur boxer briefs are exposed. Molly lets out a wolf-whistle and Nott groans, covering her eyes.

“Fjoooord,” Jester calls sweetly. “Did you ever see those pics of Caleb in the tighty-whiteys?”

Fjord coughs. “I, um, I don’t think I’ve had the honor, no.”

“ _Very_ sexy,” Molly puts in.

Caleb tugs his shirt over his head, balls it up, and chucks it at Molly. “Shut _up_ , mein Gott…”

“Who took those?” Molly muses, laughing as he pulls the shirt free of his horns and tosses it onto the rocks.

“You _know_ who took those, _Molly_ ,” Jester says with a coy smile. “It was for an _art project_ or something, riiiight? D’you still have them?”

“I do not, alas,” Molly says, a hand over his heart. He tips Caleb a wink where Jester can’t see. “Those beautiful model shots will be lost to time. Probably for the best. I would hate for Caleb to be embarrassed about it.”

“Too late,” Caleb says, clipped, as he wades back into the warm water. He finds a slightly deeper part in the middle and sits down, letting the milky blue-white water come up to his chest. “Come here, Nott. Give me your hand.”

“Jess, this is your fault,” Nott gripes.

“You’ll thank me later,” Jester insists, scooting around to grab Nott’s other hand.

Nott’s fingers clamp down on Caleb’s with vise-like intensity as she lowers one foot slowly into the water. At the edge of the pool it only comes up to the middle of her calf, but as she wades toward Caleb it deepens, until she’s standing up to her waist. The life vest meets the water and is boosted up around her shoulders, making her look like a linebacker. She sees Caleb smirking and bares her teeth at him.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not laughing! I’m not laughing, schatz. You’re fine. You’re doing great.”

Nott’s grip is just starting to relax when Caleb catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns, but he’s not quick enough—in nearly perfect concert, Fjord and Molly both _crash_ into the water, concocting an enormous wave that crashes over Nott and Caleb both. Nott shrieks in rage and tears free of Caleb’s grip, cannonballing into Fjord like a fierce green bullet.

“I’m getting out of here,” Beau yelps, and dives sideways.

Caleb tries to follow, backing away from the chaos and fervent splashing, and finds himself backing right up into Molly. He cranes his head back, back, until he’s looking at him upside-down. Molly grins and puts his hands on Caleb’s shoulders. “Hold you breath,” he whispers, and dunks him.

* * *

They don’t get back to the hostel until late. All of them are soaking wet, despite their best efforts to dry off in the truck, and they sneak past the night shift desk clerk in a straggling line, heads bowed and quiet snickers passing back and forth between them.

In spite of the long day, Caleb finds himself wired and awake after changing into comfy sweats and a threadbare camp shirt. He’s not the only one. Molly sits a few bunks down, changed into leggings and a too-big shirt, the scoop neck dipping low to expose his colorful chest tattoos, idly rolling up some cigarettes. He catches Caleb watching him and cocks his head, smiling.

No words are exchanged, but Caleb gets up and follows him when Molly slips out the door. There’s a little side garden that’s abandoned at this time of night, boxed in by a high fence and the building next door. When Caleb catches up to him, Molly is already seated comfortably on Fjord’s lap on a bench in the deep shadows. Caleb drags his feet a little, content to watch them. They’re not kissing, or being particularly handsy—just sitting together, heads bowed, lit from beneath by the gentle glow of Molly’s clove cigarette.

“Hey,” Fjord says when he’s close enough. His voice is a little rough around the edges. Looking at him, at the clasp of his hand above Molly’s knee, Caleb falls a little more in love. He’s so _soft_ , so quietly earnest. Still the sweet boy he befriended years ago, and somehow more than that. Caleb drifts nearer like a shadow and leans into Fjord’s shoulder.

“Talking about me?” Caleb teases.

“Maybe.” Fjord glances at Molly’s smile, his unsmoked cigarette. It’s just resting between his fingers, spooling thin streamings of bluish smoke into the air, making the heavy summer air smell earthy and spiced.

“Not really,” Molly admits right away. “Mostly I just wanted cuddles, and Fjord happened to be here… and now _you_ happen to be here…” He finally remembers to take a drag, and flicks the ash away after, letting it flake into the grass. “How fortuitous.”

Caleb invites himself onto the bench, and is immediately accosted by Molly’s ankles. He grins and slides this thumb along the slender bones. It’s a bit of a parallel to their arrangement in the back of Fjord’s truck, except now they all sit pressed close together, arm against arm against back, and Fjord is readily accessible to crane up and kiss. Molly makes pleased little noises in his throat and twines his hand with Caleb’s.

Fjord tastes like smoke and clean water. Feeling bold, Caleb invites himself into Fjord’s mouth, and is rewarded with a low growl in Fjord’s chest and a twinge of desire low in his gut.

“So,” he gulps when they part. Molly’s eyes are gleaming at him from the shadows, red and faintly fire-colored. “Is this… taking it slow, or…”

“I don’t really know what we’re doing,” Fjord admits, his eyes a vague reflective glow in the sideways light of the parking lot next door, his breath warm on Caleb’s cheek, his hand a tender shadow in the crook of Molly’s arm, “but I think I kinda like it.”

“Hey loser. Catch.”

Fjord flinches back, and before Caleb can react, Molly’s hand darts out and snaps a cluster of keys out of the air. Yasha lowers her hand a smiles, hardly more than a silhouette in the open doorway to the hostel. “Just clean up after yourselves, yeah?”

Molly looks down at the keys, then up at Caleb and Fjord. And grins. “Last one to the Stormchaser’s sleeping on the floor!” he yells, and takes off running. Caleb and Fjord share a look.

“Are we racing?” Fjord asks. Caleb holds out his hand.

“C’mon. We’ll lose together.”

Fjord grins and leans down, bussing a kiss to his forehead. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to work in more stuff from the original series bc I kind of went of the rails. Hopefully it works!
> 
> EDIT: almost forgot, molly's binder is the rainbow one: https://www.shapeshifters.co/crop-top/dragon-scale-binders. 
> 
> The track for this chapter: Beta Love by Ra Ra Riot.


	20. when we were younger we had our hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb gets some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally here folks, it only took 20 chapters! 
> 
> specific content tags: frottage, making out, handjobs, fingering. Also, Molly is afab and uses a variety of language to refer to his bits!
> 
> warnings for this chapter: sexual content in the main chapter, some body image stuff in the flashback.

_Eight years prior. Caleb._

Caleb had been to the Moondrop Manse before. That wasn’t its official name, only so-called amongst the regular camp-goers. It had a certain ring to it. An air of drama and intrigue that delighted the younger kids and rang sweetly nostalgic for the old-timers.

 _Old-timers_. Caleb shook his head as he lifted his hand to knock, ignoring the occasional moth beating itself fruitlessly against his hoodie. It didn’t feel like he’d been going for years and years, but this was his tenth summer, and here he was: Head Counselor, fresh out of high school, a shiny invitation letter to study in Rexxentrum waiting for him at home in Blumenthal. And _here_ he was, on the doorstep of the Manse itself, waiting to be admitted by someone who gave him butterflies.

This was probably a really bad idea.

But it was too late. The door was flung inward, revealing Molly in all his off-season glory: slouchy pants nearly falling off his lean hips, a shiny holographic crop top binder, and an absurd silk scarf wound around his neck and shoulders.

“HELLO!” Molly boomed, and swept him into a tight hug. Caleb went, partly because he had no choice, and partly because he had _missed_ Molly, dammit. Missed his smell and his laughter and his exuberance at every turn.

“Hallo, Mollymauk,” he said, mashing the words into Molly’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and lifted him a little, earning a squeal of surprise.

“Caleb! Look at you, have you been working out or something?”

“No, you are just light as a feather. And tall as fuck.” Caleb set him back down and craned his neck. Molly had shot up another few inches in the last year, putting him at nearly six feet, while Caleb still gangled around five and a half. His father assured him he’d make up the distance by the time he hit sophomore year at university, but he was beginning to lose faith.

“Well _I’m_ impressed.” Molly winked, and his eyelid seemed to shimmer strangely in the porchlight.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Caleb blurted.

“I am, in fact. Do you like it?” He batted his eyelashes and now Caleb could make out the soft iridescent gleam, like Molly had swept moondust across his eyelids.

“Y-yeah. It looks really good.” He didn’t understand why he was blushing. “Um. Should we go inside? I think the mosquitos are starting to come out.”

“Good call. C’mon in, just leave your shoes by the door.”

The house was dimly lit inside, the sky still clinging to the last dregs of sunset. Toya sat at the island in the kitchen, legs kicking against the rungs of her stool as she scribbled at her homework. She made a vague wave in Caleb’s direction as they passed, and the massive dog under her feet gave a gentle welcoming boof.

“Hey Kyle,” Caleb murmured, but kept his distance. He wasn’t overly fond of big dogs. Cats… now cats were more his speed.

As if summoned by that wayward thought, they turned the corner and there was Gramps, enormous and sprawling at the foot of the stairs. He twitched an ear in their direction but made no other greeting as Molly stepped over him to climbs the stairs. Caleb took a moment to pat the cat’s head before following Molly’s lanky stride.

Molly’s room was Caleb’s favorite in the whole house. As soon as the adoption papers had been officially signed, Gustav had started on the addition he’d always wanted to make over the garage: a round tower room with its own small attic and plenty of room to spread out. It looked much the same as it ever had, more like a circus tent than a bedroom, with rugs all over the floor and colorful tapestries in place of window dressing. He’d ditched the lumpy twin bed at some point for a double mattress on the floor, strands of fairy-lights hanging over it in lieu of a canopy. The window at the head of the bed was open and lined with little cacti in pretty hand-painted pots, admitting a soft summer breeze that smelled of old incense and wet leaves. Caleb took a deep breath and sighed it out slow.

“You still okay to do this? I know it’s kind of a weird ask.” Molly was finagling a tripod out of the closet and into the center of the room, but he took a moment to look up and meet Caleb’s eyes, checking in. Caleb nodded.

“Ja, it’s fine. I’m, um… trying to be more. Confident. You know.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Molly winked and turned back to his tripod.

It had been Jester’s idea, originally. She was really fucking perceptive, sometimes, and she noticed when Caleb started not taking his shirt off to go swimming, or wearing bulky, layered clothes in the height of summer. He swore to her—pinky swore, in the dark of a new moon, standing ankle-deep in the lake: a holy pact—that he wasn’t sick, or depressed, or anything like that. Just growing up, and getting used to what he looked like, how he felt. He hadn’t told her about Eodwulf. That part felt too raw, still. Too tender. But this, this project with Molly, felt doable. With a few prevarications.

“Just,” Caleb said, rubbing his fingers anxiously along the hem of his shirt, “I’d rather you didn’t show my face, if that’s okay. In, in your submissions.”

“That’s definitely okay.” Molly slid his camera into place on top of the tripod and turned, hands on hips and eyebrow arched contemplatively in Caleb’s direction. He looked like a proper artist, unique, slender, poised. Caleb wasn’t sure whether he wanted to _be_ him, or… _Or what, Widogast? Spit it out._ “You can keep your stuff on if you want, I’m not gonna make you take it off.”

“No it’s okay. I don’t mind.” Part of him did—he didn’t like how he looked, all gangly and weird, with his pudgy tummy that wouldn’t go away no matter what he did—but he wrested free of his shirt anyway, then shoved his jeans down his hips and stepped out of the puddle of denim. The rug beneath his feet was soft and feathery, welcoming the curl of his toes. Caleb adjusted the elastic of his underwear and dropped his hands by his sides with a gentle cough. “Um.”

“You’re doing great,” Molly said gently. “Would you like to start, then? Ooh, I’ve got this for you, between shooting! Like they do in real studios.” He bolted to the closet, scarf swirling behind him, and returned with a gorgeous silk robe done in pale teal and embroidered all over with cloud-like trees. He draped it over the hook on the back of the door. “For whenever you want it.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Caleb reached out and felt the soft sleeve, like cool water against his knuckles. “Where do you want me to… be?”

“Oh! Well, I thought maybe you could sit on this chair here, but backwards, and looks kind of broody? Like put your arms over each other and kinda… pretend you’re James Bond.”

Molly arranged him how he wanted on the chair, a spindle-legged wooden affair that looked like it had been rescued from a bargain bin at an antique store. Knowing Molly, it probably had. The wood was cool under his bum at first, but it warmed, and Molly’s careful touch here and there arranging him warmed Caleb even more.

They took a few shots like this, then by the window, then using Molly’s tall standing mirror. After a few minutes Caleb began to relax, and by the time Molly had him sprawling on the unmade mattress, an unlit cigarette between his lips “for effect,” he was half-convinced he was made for this sort of thing. Letting someone else manipulate his limbs, mold him into desirable shapes. Taking the effort out of his hands and setting him free.

“You did _awesome_ ,” Molly said when he was finally done. He draped the as-yet unused dressing gown over Caleb’s shoulders, letting the train fan out behind him like a peacock’s tail, and settled next to Caleb on the end of the mattress. “Want to see some of them?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Caleb demurred, suddenly shy again. He twiddled the fake (he was pretty sure it was fake) cigarette between his fingers. “Just… tell me if they turned out okay?”

“Let’s see.” Molly hunched over and clicked through his camera meticulously, one at a time. In spite of himself, Caleb leaned over, peering over his shoulder. To his shock, he looked… not terrible. Still skinny and pale and weirdly shaped, but somehow Molly had captured something else through the camera lens.

Caleb looked… alive. He looked broody, and curious, and pensive, and sometimes sad; he looked mysterious, like he had hidden depths. He looked…

“How,” Caleb whispered, “did you do that?”

“How did I do what, darling?” Molly stopped flipping through the preview images and sat back a little, holding the camera at an angle that Caleb could see.

He’d stopped on a picture of Caleb standing by the window. The Caleb in the photo was lit from one side by the strands of fairy lights, the rest of him painted in orange-tinted shadow and backed up by the glassy black of the window like he was staring into a deep, quiet pool. His hand was on his hip, the cigarette held neatly between his first two fingers. He didn’t _look_ seventeen and awkward in his own skin. He looked grown-up and suave, a little world-weary, but competent. Confident. He looked…

“How did you make me look sexy?” Caleb blurted.

Molly threw his head back and laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but a cheerful, joyful one that tugged an answering smile out of Caleb’s lips. “You _are_ sexy, darling. Why did you think I asked you to model for me? You’re honest, and free. You fit weird in your own skin sometimes, but like, whatever, that’s what being a fuckin’ teenager is like. _I_ feel that way a lot.”

“You do not!”

“Of course I do! Caleb, c’mon. Look at me.” Molly put the camera down and turned to face him on the mattress. “I barely know who I am, still—I’ve been alive for two years, as far as I’m concerned, and there’s a part of me that still doesn’t feel right in this body. I don’t know why, or whether I’ve always been this way, but…” He trailed off and shrugged helplessly. “I’m just muddling along, you know? Doing my best. And so are you. And that struggle is… poetic, I think. Not in like a cheesy high-brow boring way, but a difficult, angsty, blood sweat and tears way. That’s what my portfolio is about.” He sprang to his feet and then paused, rocking on his toes like a bird raring to take flight. “I can show you some of my other stuff, if you want?”

“I—I would love to see it,” Caleb stammered. He’d had no idea Molly struggled, too, or that he’d had such a deep, interesting thought process behind a few half-dressed photos. “Please!”

Molly grabbed his laptop from his desk and returned, tail coiling excitedly behind him. He sat crosslegged on the mattress and turned the screen toward Caleb. “These ones are of… a mutual friend who asked to remain anonymous. Um. You can probably tell who it is, but I promised I wouldn’t attach her name to it.”

It was Beau on the screen, of course, even though her face wasn’t showing in any of the shots. They weren’t quite like Caleb’s—they’d been cropped already, and post-processed with whatever filters and things Molly had seen fit to add. Some of them even had drawings on them, scribbles over her bare torso, lines and circles emphasizing the bruises and scars she’d acquired over a year of those combat classes she took at her fancy boarding school. She was naked in some of them, but it wasn’t an erotic sort of nakedness. It just _was_. Then Molly swiped through to some others—his foster siblings, or friends of theirs at camp. All of it was in a similar vein: intensely personal, raw, angry, victorious, sometimes painful to look at. Caleb’s chest was tight with emotion and he knew he’s barely scratched the surface of Molly’s portfolio.

“These are amazing,” he whispered at last. “Wow. I mean, _fuck_ , Moll, these are _really good_.”

“Thank you,” Molly said quietly. He was smiling, hunched over with his arms around his knees, his tail a happy coil in the sheets. “And thank you for being part of it. I’ll… show you some of the shots, maybe, when I’m done editing?”

Caleb hesitates a moment, looking again at the screen. There’s a body there he only half-recognizes, probably someone from camp, their long grey back arched in the sunlight, blunt fingers pulling at skin and muscle like they’re trying to free themselves from the prison of their body. Or maybe put themselves back together. Their fingernails are painted pink to match the pink coils of hair clinging to their nape with sweat. It’s an intense image, sexually charged but not pornographic, full of life and fear and vigor. He takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. I’d really like that, Mollymauk. If you don’t mind.”

Molly smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

_Present day._

The Stormchaser’s lights are on when Fjord and Caleb arrive, the door banging gently as if someone had just gone through in a hurry and hadn’t latched it behind them. Fjord holds it open and waves his arm wide. “After you, Mr. Caleb.”

“Oh, god. Not you too.” Caleb stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek anyway, then forges ahead inside.

Despite the signs of life, the Stormchaser is suspiciously quiet. He cocks his head and looks around. The cockpit is empty, and the kitchen. That doesn’t leave many other options.

“Molly?” he calls, a little thrill running down his spine. He forges quietly down the narrow hall, not bothering to look inside the darkened bathroom. He peers into the bedroom. Just the bed, sloppily made from that morning, all the shelves in place, the curtains battened down and windows locked tight.

“ _Gotcha!_ ” Molly shouts, springing behind him. Caleb leaps nearly a foot in the air and almost clocks his head on the lintel, pitching forward with arms pinwheeling as the mattress comes up to meet him.

“Moll—!”

Too late. Caleb goes down with a shriek of laughter, bouncing on Yasha’s surprisingly springy mattress. He’s immediately smothered under Molly’s weight, and he shoves his face against Molly’s neck in retaliation, blowing raspberries against his neck. Molly writhes, giggling, and shoves him off, and Caleb manages to wrangle his weight around until he’s sitting on Molly’s stomach, hands on his shoulders to hold him still.

“You’re a fiend, Mollymauk,” he wheezes.

“That’s actually not true!” Molly says, putting up one slim finger. “Tieflings are thought to be of fiendish heritage, but devils and fiends are actually—” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “Why am I lecturing you on this, you probably already know.”

“I know a little,” Caleb admits. He may or may not have done more research on tieflings after making friends with Jester. He brushes a curlicue of hair from Molly’s forehead and leans down to kiss the spot. “But you may lecture me anytime, I’m always happy to learn more.”

Molly’s red eyes crinkle up at the corners, inviting another soft kiss to his temple. He takes a breath like he’s going to speak, but just exhales it instead, and reaches up to tangle his hands in Caleb’s hair. “Would you kiss me please, Mr. Caleb?”

Caleb wrinkles his nose. “If you keep calling me that I might be tempted not to,” he warns, but he can’t help bussing a soft kiss to Molly’s lips regardless.

Molly hums and kisses back. He’s very warm beneath Caleb’s spread thighs, perfectly content to lie pinned against the mattress. The skin of his upper arms is smooth under Caleb’s hands. Caleb licks forward gingerly, half-expecting a refusal, but then Molly’s lips part and their tongues slide together, shallow, tender. Caleb can feel his tongue piercing, a warm glass bead that juxtaposes nicely with the softness of Molly’s tongue. Molly groans and shifts beneath him.

“Okay?” Caleb whispers, pulling back a little. His heart is racing and he’s a little too warm even though the bedroom door is ajar, admitting the cool night air of Zadash’s midsummer. In the milky light of the overhead lamp, Molly’s lavender skin is flushed a pretty mauve, and the white tips of his incisors gleam as he smiles breathlessly.

“ _Ja_. I’m more than okay.” His eyes flit beyond Caleb’s shoulder. “Hello, handsome. Enjoying the show?”

Caleb sits up a little and looks over his shoulder. Fjord is leaning in the doorway, shirt open halfway down his belly and his eyes a little glazed-over. He startles upon being addressed and clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah, I’m… really enjoyin’ it.”

“Well come here, then. Don’t stand on ceremony.” Molly sits up and holds out an imperious hand, and Caleb moves off of him to kneel at his side instead. Fjord pushes off the door frame, half-smiling, and starts working on the remaining buttons of his shirt. Molly purrs and nuzzles a whisper in Caleb’s ear like a secret. “He’s terribly handsome when he’s flustered, isn’t he? Look at him, toting that great package around like he doesn’t even notice.”

Caleb feels himself turn brilliant scarlet all the way up to his ears. He had been trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to stare—but they are on the bed, and Fjord is standing _right there_ , a noticeable bulge in his jeans right at eye level.

“It’s not fair,” he whispers, dry-mouthed, in their last few seconds of privacy. “ _You_ know what it looks like.”

Molly yelps with startled laughter and tumbles backward readily when Caleb gives him a shove. He sprawls over the rumpled bedding, one foot rubbing against Caleb’s thigh, playful and familiar. Caleb gives his ankle a pinch in retaliation, and then Fjord is there, kneeling on the bed and reaching across them to pull the shade down in the back, blocking out the city lights.

“Well?” he says, sort of looming over them with one foot on the floor and the other knee propped on the mattress.“Everything copacetic?”

“Everything is lovely, thank you,” Molly drawls, leaning back on his elbows on the mattress, akimbo and unashamed. His loose, stretchy leggings look soft, and Caleb aches to touch him. “Would be nicer if you felt like joining us, though.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Fjord reaches out and drapes an arm across his shoulders, and it’s easy for Caleb to lean in, cheek tilted in invitation. Fjord busses a warm, rough kiss there before whispering, “Don’t let me interrupt, by the by. You two make a real pretty picture, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Mm.” Caleb’s skin seems to prickle and he nuzzles into Fjord’s throat. “So do you.”

Molly’s toes curl against Caleb’s thigh. “Are you two whispering about me?”

“Whisperin’ about how beautiful you are,” Fjord throws back with a cheeky smile. Behind Caleb’s back, his hand creeps up his spine and down again, a slow, hypnotic pace that has Caleb all but melting into him.

Molly huffs and rolls his eyes, tucking his hands behind his head. “Sap.”

“Mmm. And what of it?” Fjord reaches out and grabs Molly’s slim ankle in a loose grip, giving him a gentle shake. “I think we’ve all earned a bit of tenderness, after the last few days.”

“That we have.” The tease in Molly’s voice has gone away entirely. He sits up and scoots forward a little bit, and suddenly the three of them are knee to knee to knee, sitting in the eye of the storm that is Yasha’s bed. Caleb’s breath catches a little in his throat as Molly reaches out, palm as soft as silk, and cups Fjord’s cheek in one hand. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes please,” Caleb says automatically. Two pairs of eyes—one gold, one crimson—turn to him in tandem, startled into laughter. He ducks his head, embarrassed, but doesn’t retract the request.

“Well?” Fjord says. “Don’t leave the man waiting.”

Slowly, smirking, aware that Caleb’s eyes are locked to him, Molly leans forward and kisses Fjord. He drops his hand to Fjord’s chest, taking care to leave an unobstructed view. The thought that they’re doing this _for Caleb_ is electrifying. He squirms where he sits, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. Then Fjord reaches for him, tangling their fingers together, and Caleb settles, leaning against Fjord’s shoulder to watch close-up.

Molly smiles and flicks his tongue, shows a hint of teeth. Emboldened, Fjord sucks Molly’s tongue into his mouth and cradles the nape of his neck with one large hand. Caleb shudders. It’s every fantasy he’s ever had come to life, emblazoned into his memory now in brilliant, polychromatic light. And the _sounds_. Every harsh exhale feels like nails dragged down his spine, every artless smack and slip dizzies him, dries his mouth with how good it feels just to _watch_.

Then Fjord pulls back, haggard, eyes a swollen amber, and nods. “Go on, Molls.”

Molly grins. His narrow chest heaves for breath, and Caleb can see his nipples standing up against the fabric of his shirt. He wants to reach out and touch, but he’s not sure he’s allowed, and besides, Molly is leaning toward him, hands cupping his hot cheeks, and he is consumed.

His jeans are starting feel a little snug as he kisses Molly warmly—he can taste Fjord, he thinks, and that thought alone sends his heart slamming against his ribs. Caleb finally gathers his courage and rests his hands carefully against Molly’s shoulders. Fjord’s hand settles on his own back, warm and steadying. Then there’s the barest whisper of breath against the back of his neck and Fjord is _kissing_ him there, lips warm and damp at his nape. Caleb goes very still.

Feeling the lack of response, Molly starts to pull away. Whatever he sees over Caleb’s shoulder makes him smile, and a moment later there’s a tongue, and a hot, open mouth, and the barest scrape of teeth. Caleb’s mouth drops open and he whines—an embarrassing, high-pitched sound. Enormous hands smooth down his back and rub comfortingly at his waist, and he drops his head to one side a little, making room for Fjord to suck slow, hot kisses along his neck.

“Fuck,” Molly whispers thickly. His lips are plump and parted, and his tongue flicks out to wet the corners. “Mark him, Fjord. Please.”

“Please,” Caleb echoes in a dry whisper before Fjord can even ask. A moment later he feels the all-consuming heat of Fjord’s belly pressed to his back. The grip on his waist grows firm, holding him in place, as Fjord patiently sucks a bright, burning brand against his skin.

Caleb quivers, hands becoming claws in the fabric of Molly’s shirt. He’s well and truly hard, now, and he can feel Fjord hard against him, too, feel that unmistakable bulge against his ass through two pairs of jeans. He pushes back against it, just a little, and Fjord growls and sinks blunt teeth into the muscle where neck meets shoulder. Caleb cries out softly, watching as Molly’s eyes grow a deeper, darker red, watching that mauve flush crawl down his throat. Watching him reach out and drag a curious finger down Caleb’s sternum.

“Is it all right if I touch you?” Molly whispers. His voice has gone ragged and dry, his accent a little thicker to Caleb’s ears. Caleb bites his lip and nods.

Molly doesn’t move to take his shirt off, or even touch him under his clothes—just places spread palms over Caleb’s chest and rubs up and down, finding his nipples and giving them soft pinches through the fabric. Caleb gasps, nods when Molly gives him a quick, questioning look. Even over his shirt, Molly’s hands are clever, electric. Each brush over his nipples, inadvertent or otherwise, sends electricity pulsing through him, and he can’t help rubbing back against Fjord, back to belly, frotting shallow against the thick, sturdy heat of Fjord’s dick through his jeans.

“Cay,” Fjord mumbles brokenly. “You…”

“Ja, Fjord, what is it?” Caleb asks. He releases Molly and grabs onto Fjord instead, palms to the backs of Fjords hands, fingers lacing together over Caleb’s bony hips.

Fjord huffs a laugh, hot breath on his neck. “You feel really fuckin’ nice in my lap.”

Caleb shivers. And grinds again, very deliberately, feeling like he’s about to crawl out of his skin with how turned on he is. There’s no way around it, no prevarication—he’s hard, and he’s really fucking horny, and Molly is staring at him like he wants to eat Caleb whole.

“Fuck,” Caleb gasps, as the picture coalesces in his mind: Fjord behind him, pushing into him with his fat, delicious cock, Molly spread out like a feast with his mouth open, face painted in Caleb’s—

“Molls, darlin’, is this—”

“It’s perfect,” Molly rasps, reaching past Caleb’s shoulder to do something—stroke Fjord’s cheek, perhaps? Caleb turns his head a little, trying to see, and chokes at the sight of Molly pushing two slim fingers right into Fjord’s mouth. Fjord sucks them eagerly to the third knuckle, slurping a little, tongue pushing between them and sharp heat stabs Caleb low in his guts.

“It’s not… not too fast?” Caleb asks, and then he giggles, because Molly is pressing three fingers into Fjord’s mouth and Fjord is taking them like he’s taking a cock, groaning around their girth, so what kind of question is _too fast?_

Molly grins at him and drags his hand free of Fjord’s sloppy, grasping mouth with a wet sound. His fingers drag wetly across Caleb’s collarbone and then Molly is gripping his shirt and nudging him back, back, until his head is laying on Fjord’s shoulder, leaving his throat bare for perusal. “I don’t know about you,” Molly murmurs, “but I’m enjoying the _fuck_ out of this. I’m happy to go with the flow—if something happens someone doesn’t like, just speak up, yeah?”

“Ja,” Caleb croaks.

“Yeah.” Fjord kisses Caleb’s cheek and finally lets go of his hips, rubbing open palms over Caleb’s lower belly in slow, exploratory spirals. “That sounds great to me.”

“Caleb,” Molly says, eyes practically glowing in the dark, “is it okay if I kiss your neck?”

“ _Bitte_ ,” Caleb chokes out. “Please. Please, ah… you can, um, bite a little, if you want.”

Molly’s nostrils flare and Fjord gives a low, interested hum that vibrates right through Caleb’s spine. “Oh really?”

“Really.” Caleb licks his suddenly dry lips, and Molly’s eyes follow the movement like a hawk spying a field mouse far below. “I want—I want you to mark me, too.”

“Fuck.” Molly takes a moment, closing his eyes. When he opens them again his face is somehow both soft and hungry, and the warmth of his hands on Caleb’s chest is a sweet and aching weight. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Fjord’s cheek presses to Caleb’s, watching as Molly sucks small kisses to Caleb’s exposed throat. He’s very careful about his horns and tilts his head just so—it hadn’t even occurred to Caleb to worry about them, but he has a feeling Molly is used to wielding them with care. Then he feels the heat and wet of an open mouth, even hotter than Fjord’s, and the careful scrape of teeth. Molly’s incisors are nothing to sneeze at, but he’s careful with those, too. Not _too_ careful, but careful enough not to break skin. Sweet, muted pain blooms along Caleb’s neck opposite where Fjord left his throbbing signature, and he trembles in Fjord’s lap.

“More,” he whispers, “more, bitte.”

Fjord rumbles an agreement, and Molly’s kisses press smilingly down beneath the collar of his shirt. It’s just loose cotton, and gives way readily to Molly’s fingers as he pulls, exposing more of Caleb’s pale skin.

“Do you speak a lot of Zemnian in bed?” Molly asks between one hickey and the next.

“I—I don’t know,” Caleb admits. He squirms, and is rewarded as Fjord presses his lower belly, bringing him to sit more securely on his dick. “ _Oh…_ ”

There’s a delightful fleeting moment where Molly is nibbling marks into his collarbone and Fjord is mouthing aimlessly at his nape, and Caleb thinks he might just dissolve and float away, vaporized into nothing more than pure, atomic pleasure. Then Fjord’s hand moves slowly, painstakingly down his belly to cup the fly of his jeans. Caleb’s eyes fly open and he seizes Fjord’s wrist. And everything goes still.

“I’m sorry,” Fjord says immediately, trying to pull away, but Caleb won’t let him. “Was that too far? D’you want me to back off, darlin?”

“No,” Caleb whispers. He shuts his eyes against Molly’s curious gaze, against the tiny wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows. “I just, um. I don’t want to… embarrass myself.”

A little of the tension in Fjord’s body eases. “What do you mean? There’s nothin’ to be embarrassed about, Cay. Promise.”

Caleb’s cheeks are impossibly warm. He covers his face with his hands and tries not to whine with disappointment when Fjord takes his hand away from Caleb’s crotch. “I just… I don’t want to cum too quickly,” he mumbles, “and I’m gonna, if you—if you keep doing that. Touching me… like that.”

“Sweetheart,” Fjord murmurs, lips warm against the shell of Caleb’s ear, “that’s kind of the point.”

“We’re just easing into things,” Molly agrees, and his voice is soft and kind enough that Caleb feels brave enough to look at him. Molly smiles and darts a quick kiss to his nose, hands steady on Caleb’s thighs. “It’s normal to be a little… excited.” His eyes drop to Caleb’s lap. And he licks his lips.

Caleb can practically feel his cock twitch, and he squirms in Fjord’s arms, breath coming a little quicker, humid with sweat beneath his clothes. Just the friction of his jeans has him primed like a pistol ready to go off. Fjord’s arms catch him up around the waist and his squirm becomes something else: a slow twist of hips, a grind, blood throbbing in his pelvis.

“O-okay,” he whispers—his mouth is too dry for anything else. “Ja, okay, please…”

He has to coax Fjord into it, a little. Molly sits up on his knees and Caleb rests his forehead on his sloping shoulder, petting the backs of Fjord’s knuckles as Fjord slowly moves to rub his palm against Caleb’s fly. Caleb’s eyes flutter but don’t quite shut. He has a really nice view down the front of Molly’s shirt of sweat-licked skin, of nipples rubbing against fabric, and he doesn’t want to waste it.

Fjord gives him a gentle squeeze and Caleb moans. Molly soothes him with a kiss to the side of his head, fingers easy and sweet against his inner thighs. He works open the button of Caleb’s jeans as Fjord rubs against his ass, and bats Fjord’s hand away long enough to get his fly down. Caleb whines with relief, and a little bit of embarrassment—the lingering salt-rime of the hot springs has been sweated away entirely, and he can smell his own arousal, bitter and musky.

“Mmm.” Molly hums against his shaved nape and coaxes him forward a little, easing his jeans down his hips. “Look at you. Lovely boy.”

Caleb presses a tiny cry into Molly’s shoulder. He doesn’t know why that small endearment has such a profound effect on him, but the tenderness of it feels sharper than a razor blade. Seeming to recognize this, Molly squeezes his arms, his hands, and breathes more soft things into his hair as Fjord peels the elastic away from Caleb’s tummy and slips a hand inside his underwear.

“You’re doing beautifully, sweetheart,” Molly breathes. “Oh, darling. You’re exquisite. Isn’t he, Fjord?”

A low, rumbling sound emerges from Fjord’s throat as he gives Caleb’s dick a few exploratory strokes. “Yeah, he is. Fuck, Cay, you’re the sweetest thing.”

Caleb sobs into Molly’s neck and rolls his hips weakly. Fjord’s erection seems more present with one less pair of jeans in the way, and he feels shivery and overwhelmed, surrounded on all sides by warmth and giddy, unrestrained affection. Molly rubs his back with one hand and the other slinks down to join Fjord’s around his cock. Caleb gasps for breath, hips moving jerkily of their own accord. Staring down, he can see his own dick jutting out from his briefs, flushed a deep red, glistening at the tip as Molly teases the head and frenulum in tender counterpoint to Fjord’s slow strokes. As he watches, Molly rubs a beat of fluid from the tip and brings his fingers to his lips.

“Fuck,” Caleb blurts. Molly stares at him, eyes heavy-lidded, and licks his fingertips clean before reaching back down to wrap his hand around the head again. “Molly…”

“What is it, sweetness?”

Caleb leans forward, nudging against him clumsily, nose to nose. “Kiss me,” he whispers, “bitte, Molly—”

Molly obeys. Licks right into his mouth, tasting salty-sweet and bitter like overbrewed tea. He sucks greedily on Molly’s tongue until every last trace is gone and is still kissing him, sloppy, open-mouthed, when Fjord’s grip firms and his orgasm is pulled out of him in a sudden wave. Caleb cries out into Molly’s mouth and his hips jerk weakly, his whole body seized in a moment of perfect clarity.

“Fuck,” Molly says appreciatively. Another kiss to the corner of Caleb’s slack mouth, then his cheek, burning so hot that Molly’s lips are very nearly cool in comparison. “Beautiful boy.”

One last little aftershock twitches through him and he sags, nearly falling forward. “Moll… _Fjord…_ ”

“You did wonderfully,” Fjord rumbles. He kisses the back of Caleb’s neck and lets his cock go, fumbling behind him with his own fly. “Caleb, sweetheart, can I…”

“Ja, yes, whatever you want,” Caleb slurs. “Fuck me, Fjord, bitte—”

“Well!” Fjord laughs, a bit strained, and something blunt and hot and sticky rubs against Caleb’s bare ass. “Maybe not—maybe not that, but, oh… fuck…”

“C’mere, sweets.” Molly urges him forward, down to sprawl across Molly’s body, and Caleb is too boneless and satisfied to resist. “Fuck me running, that’s a pretty picture. Fjord, can I—”

“Sure,” Fjord says, voice strained over the soft sound of skin on skin. “Just for Caleb, though.”

“Obviously.”

There’s a bit of rearranging, some fumbling, and Caleb is happy to let himself be manhandled a little as his jeans are tugged down even further and his underwear is situated lower on his hips, just under his propped-up backside. Molly is soft and slim underneath him, and gives a murmur of encouragement when Caleb slips a hand up under his shirt. His skin is warm, dappled with scars, inviting exploration.

“Molly,” Caleb mumbles, “does he look hot?”

“Fjord, you mean?” Molly gives a breathless giggle and winds a hand through Caleb’s hair. “He looks sexy as _fuck_. Don’t worry, I’m filming it so you won’t miss a thing.”

“That’s _really_ hot.”

Caleb nuzzles into Molly’s sweat-damp throat and turns a little so he can see the screen of Molly’s phone. Through it, under the blinking red light on the top of the screen, he watches as Fjord jacks off with quick, efficient strokes, eyes hazy and his free hand holding his jeans down out of the way. He seems to realize he’s being watched intently and grins, licking his sharp teeth and slowing his pace a little. His hips roll forward leisurely into his hand, and he squeezes a bit at the head of his cock—a moment later, Caleb can feel a tiny drip against his backside.

“Holy shit,” Molly whispers. Caleb wholeheartedly agrees. “C’mon, big guy, you’re almost there.”

“Just makin’ sure Caleb’s enjoying himself.” Fjord’s free hand smooths along Caleb’s spine, from shoulder blades to sacrum, and pushes his shirt up a little bit. “Cay, I’m gonna make a mess of you, baby. Is that okay?”

Caleb’s breath catches in his chest. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Ja, bitte…”

“He says _yes please_ ,” Molly translates. “So get to it, before I run out of memory.”

Fjord just laughs. Behind him, out of range of Caleb’s vision, the sound of his hand grows quicker and his soft, breathless grunts turn to raspy breaths that seem to echo in the narrow space. Then Fjord grabs one asscheek clumsily, and that’s Caleb’s only warning before he feels the hot, wet drizzle of spunk on his skin.

“Gods,” Molly murmurs. “That’s gonna be a nice video.” He tosses his phone to the bed and wriggles happily under Caleb’s deadweight. “Fjord’s face when he cums is a work of art. I could put that shit in the MOMA.”

“Fuck off,” Fjord chokes, laughing. “Actually—wait, give me your phone.”

“You have your own, you know,” Molly chides, but he hands it over. “Caleb, this okay?”

“Mmmf…?”

Molly hugs him closer and kisses his temple. “Fjord made a nice mess of your beautiful freckled ass, Widogast. He wants to take a picture.”

“Oh… ja. Ja, that would be… okay.” Blushing, Caleb burrows deeper into Molly’s chest, jaw rubbing against its softness and the firm, insistent peak of a nipple. Distracted now, he turns and flicks it with his tongue, tastes cotton and old cologne. Molly stiffens. “Um. Can I…?”

“Of course,” Molly breathes. “If you want, you’re welcome to it.”

Caleb’s hands are already halfway up Molly’s shirt—it’s easy to push the fabric up the rest of the way and mouth clumsy kisses to his chest. He’s so much softer than Caleb ever imagined. Bony underneath, but skin silky and tinged with salt. Caleb sucks at one nipple, swirls his tongue around it, and moves to the other. Above him, Molly’s sighs grow gusty and deep.

“You have such a gorgeous mouth,” Molly says lowly, and Caleb tingles with faded pleasure. “Fjord, are you making a feature-length film over there or what?”

“Hff. You’re one to talk.” The bed creaks and shifts as Fjord climbs off it. “I’m gonna, um… go get a washcloth for Cay. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“No promises,” Molly drawls. Caleb pulls off with a wet slurp and turns to look. Fjord is standing there watching, face still flushed a deep green, half-hard cock slowly softening in its nest of black curls. His shirt is rumpled and barely hanging onto his shoulders, his chest and belly thick and lightly furred, the skin a slightly paler shade that sets off the dark line of his treasure trail. Fjord gives a shy half-smile, blurred at the edges in the afterglow.

“Be right back,” he rasps, and leaves for the washroom.

A flicker of insecurity rises in Caleb’s breast suddenly. Molly is spread beneath him, seeming entirely at ease, but they’re close enough that Caleb can feel the rapidfire thunder of his heartbeat, the hotter-than-usual heat of his skin. Molly quirks an eyebrow at him. “All right, sweetness?”

“Yeah! Ja, I’m fine. I’m going to, um…” He wriggles back a little, fighting with his jeans. In spite of being unzipped, they’re snug around his thighs, trapping him in place. Molly laughs and half-sits up to help.

“Here. I promised Yasha we’d _try_ not to mess the sheets too much, but I suppose we can always run them to a laundromat if we need to.”

Between them they’re able to get Caleb’s jeans off and onto the floor, then his briefs. He feels abruptly chilled in spite of the accumulated warmth of the little room, like all the heated self-assurance he’d built up had melted away after orgasm. If Molly notices his hesitancy, he ignores it, tugging his shirt over his head and stepping out of his leggings. Underneath he’s just wearing snug-fitting grey boxer briefs. Molly wriggles back into bed, satisfied, and Caleb crawls into his arms willingly—maybe a little _too_ willingly.

“Hey,” Molly says, brushing a lock of hair behind Caleb’s ear. “You all right?”

Caleb bites his lip and nods. He feels, very strangely, like he shouldn’t look directly at Molly’s body, even though he’d stripped down without an ounce of shame. “Just nervous,” he admits, and he can’t help but scoff at himself a little. “I mean, I know we just did… all of _that_ , but.”

“It’s okay.” Molly pets his spine, and Caleb feels a little surge of bravery, enough to lean in and kiss Molly’s cheek. Molly smiles. “We can just snuggle a little bit if you want.”

“What do _you_ want?” Caleb asks pointedly.

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“And? What else?”

Molly’s eyes drop to Caleb’s lips. “I’d like you to kiss me, if that’s all right.”

Caleb obliges—that part is easy. The rest will come as it comes, he decides, and snickers in the back of his head. Almost as soon as Molly’s lips part beneath his, a renewed surge of want courses through him. Not arousal, necessarily, not so soon after orgasm, but desire, low and warm and comfortable in his belly. He licks gently at Molly’s tongue piercing and trails his knuckles down to rub into the softness of Molly’s navel.

Just as he’s gathering the courage to go farther, the floor creaks with Fjord’s return. In a split second of playfulness, spurred by the tender give of Molly’s mouth, Caleb decides to ignore him and see what happens. He’s well-rewarded. Molly hums, perhaps a little exaggeratedly, and a moment later Caleb feels the warmth of a damp washcloth dragging across his backside. He squirms a little and Molly laughs against his lips.

“Ticklish?” he murmurs.

“Thought I said not to have any fun without me,” Fjord chides, but he sounds not in the least upset. Out of the corner of Caleb’s eye, Fjord drops his shirt and the soiled washcloth to the ground before crawling into bed, sandwiching himself between the wall and the tangle that is Molly-and-Caleb. Caleb kisses down Molly’s throat and tries not to flinch with surprise when Fjord’s hand inserts itself between them, rubbing down Molly’s belly to the front of his briefs. Molly gasps and twitches toward the contact, and Caleb finds himself drawing back, wanting a clearer view.

“You’ve been mighty patient,” Fjord murmurs. The flat of his palm cups between Molly’s legs and rolls in a shallow grinding motion. Molly tenses, breath coming short. “You sure you haven’t cum already? You’re real wet, Molls.”

Molly gives a soft cry and clutches Caleb’s shoulders. “I’m—no, I haven’t yet, Fjord— _Fjord_ —”

A spike of something that’s not quite jealousy pricks Caleb’s sternum. Emboldened by Fjord’s gentle competence, he eases onto his side and rubs up Molly’s inner thigh with one hand. Molly’s head tosses on the pillow and his eyes flutter nearly shut, hips pressing higher into Fjord’s hand.

“I—I—”

“Spit it out, darlin,” Fjord encourages.

“Please,” Molly whimpers, face screwing up, “please, I’m close, I—”

Caleb desperately wants to contribute, but he’s floundering, not entirely sure to approach this… cooperative endeavor. He wants to kiss Molly, but he wants to watch. He wants to get a hand inside Molly’s briefs, but he’s not sure what to do when he gets there. He can smell how turned on Molly is; hell, he can _see_ it, see the spreading damp as Fjord toys with him through his underwear. The briefs are form-fitting, but still have an open placket, and after another moment or two of playing, Fjord gets his fingers inside and rubs quickly back and forth.

“Fuck!” Molly shouts. “Holy fuck, Fjord, I forgot how good your fingers are—”

There’s another second or two of breathless quiet, and Caleb can hear the wet slide of Fjord’s fingers magnified in the silence. Then Molly swears violently, in Common and blistering Infernal, and there’s a little swell of fluid through the gusset that quickly seeps into the cotton. Molly sighs, shuddering, and continues to rock gently against Fjord’s hand.

“Here, Caleb,” Fjord says suddenly, startling him out of his daze. “Help me get him naked.”

“I’m just gonna make a mess of the sheets,” Molly warns, breathless and ruddy-cheeked. Still, he props his hips up and together they manage to strip him of his underwear, Caleb’s hands fumbling clumsily with the elastic. Then he’s completely bare, a spread of long, lean lilac, dappled with scars and splashes of bright color where tattoos wind across his body. And down between his legs, a little glint of silver. Caleb’s mouth waters.

“Can I—” he begins, and stops when the other two look at him as if startled. “I mean… sorry, I…”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Molly assures him, somehow managing to sound perfectly lucid even after orgasm. He reaches out and pulls Caleb to him for a kiss. Soft at first, but growing firmer as Fjord plays with Molly’s nipples, until suddenly Molly gasps and Caleb finds the courage to slide a hand between his legs. Molly’s hips splay open and he reaches down, placing his hand over Caleb’s. “Like this,” he murmurs against Caleb’s lips. And he begins to move.

Molly does most of the work, at first, but Caleb’s always been a quick study. There’s a rhythm to this, too, half-familiar—eventually Molly’s hand falls away to grip the sheets, and Fjord’s hand slides in behind, pumping two fingers in and out of Molly’s body as Caleb circles his clit with increasing pressure. Slippery and blood-hot, the movement builds and builds until Molly’s back arches off the bed and he comes again with a cry.

“Should… should I,” Caleb falters, unsure whether to continue. Clear ejaculate drips down his wrist and dapples the sheets, and Fjord coaxes his hand back into place.

“Keep goin’ til he says stop,” Fjord murmurs. “That’s the general rule.”

“You’re both fantastic,” Molly chokes out. His thighs spread wider, trembling, toes curling into the sheets. “Fuck me, _fuck me—_ ”

“Is that a request or are you just havin’ a good time?” Fjord asks, grinning.

“Fuck _you_ , Fjord,” Molly rasps, “can’t it be both? Oh, gods…”

Feeling clever, Caleb eases a finger inside next to two of Fjord’s. It’s hotter than he could have imagined, wet and tight and clinging, and textured in a way he wasn’t expecting. He curls the pad of his finger like he might with himself, and Molly’s body clamps around them hungrily. For a second he thinks Molly’s body might force them out entirely, but Fjord’s arm bunches with muscle and they stay put as Molly writhes with pleasure.

His third orgasm is a little drier than the others, but Caleb’s hand is still soaked to the wrist when Molly waves them off weakly. His legs slump to the mattress and he groans when Fjord uses the much-abused top sheet to pat his thighs dry.

“Yasha’s gonna kill me,” Molly sighs, throwing one arm over his face, “but fuck, it was worth it.”

Caleb licks surreptitiously at his first two fingers. It doesn’t really taste like much—definitely nicer than his own, although he hadn’t minded sucking _that_ off Molly’s tongue a few minutes ago. He blushes to remember it and wipes his hand off on the sheets.

“Don’t lay on me,” Molly warns when Caleb moves to do just that. Caleb freezes, but Molly pats one cheek and kisses the other, sitting up with lazy, languid motions like he’s moving through water. “Not yet. Be right back.” And he rolls off the bed and lurches out the door, his tail a drunken half-loop behind him.

“Did I do okay?” Caleb asks as soon as he’s gone. Fjord give him a startled look from where he’s laying back on the pillows, then bursts into laughter.

“Absofuckinlutely you did. Don’t take it personally—he’s a tidy motherfucker.” Fjord pats the bed, finds it wet, grimaces, and drags the blankets over the spot before trying again. “C’mere. You okay?”

Caleb nods and comes, burrowing into Fjord’s side. He only realizes now that he never took his tee shirt off. _Probably for the best_ , he thinks, and lays his head on Fjord’s chest. “I wasn’t really expecting… all of that,” he admits. “It was fucking amazing, don’t get me wrong, I’m just… processing.”

Fjord pets the back of his head, his hand enormous and so, so gentle. The answering rumble of his voice seems to throb through Caleb’s body as they lay pressed together, skin to (mostly) skin. “Take your time. It was good, though? You liked it?”

“I liked it a lot.” Caleb blushes and curls his toes against Fjord’s calf. “You seemed, um, pretty familiar with… him. With…”

“You gearin’ up for a question, darlin? You can ask whatever you want, I just might have to pass it on to Molly to answer.”

Caleb gathers his courage and props his chin in his hand so he can look at Fjord’s placid expression. The hand in his hair drops to his back instead, rubbing gentle knuckles along his spine over his shirt. “It just seemed like you’ve… done this before, maybe. More than once.”

“Yeah, um… there may’ve been a time or two. Apart from the first.” Fjord traces a slow spiral along Caleb’s sacrum and up under the hem of his shirt. His eyes flit away and back to Caleb. “It wasn’t anythin’ serious, at the time.”

Caleb can’t help smiling at how bashful he is. He leans down, emboldened by Fjord’s hand on his skin, and kisses him gently. Shallow. Fjord nuzzles up into it and the weight of his hand grows warm and heavy, dragging Caleb back down to lay against his chest. “I don’t mind, you know,” Caleb whispers after a small eon has passed. He kisses Fjord’s chest and lays his cheek in the same spot as drowsiness enfolds him like a blanket. “I’m glad you… had him. In the beginning.”

“He was good to me,” Fjord whispers. “Like I hope we were good to you.”

“You were. Very much so. And I hope you’ll be good to me again, and again…”

Fjord hums with happy laughter. “Yeah. The feelin’s mutual.”

They lay quietly together for a little bit, listening to the water run on the other side of the thin wall. A few minutes later, Molly returns, clean and glowing, and he slides right up against Caleb’s back, one arm draping over Caleb’s waist to rest a hand on Fjord’s belly. He nuzzles a kiss behind Caleb’s ear and murmurs, “Hey there, handsome.”

“Hallo.” Caleb reaches back and pats clumsily at Molly’s hip. He’s suddenly exhausted, and he doesn’t think he can keep his eyes open for much longer. “Izzit rude t’ just… fall asleep…”

Molly laughs and says something soft and fond, but Caleb’s heavy eyelids have already shut. The last thing he feels before sleep is the tender press of two pairs of lips against the top of his head. And then quiet, and darkness, and in the far-off distance, the faint smell of ash on the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: we don't need money to have a good time, the subways. 
> 
> Again, thank you loads and loads to all the lovely commenters! Real life is getting crazy but you keep me afloat. And [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/racheldburg/playlist/2sTffhTBBv8i6n99wqWLvN) is the entire playlist for the fic so far, if you're interested. :)


	21. oh, it's magic when i'm with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb dreams, but nothing lasts forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! I know this says chapter 21/21, but the story is far from over. I decided I needed a break from regular updates, so I found a good stopping point and I'll be picking this up again in the new year when I've got part two banged out. In the mean time there's lots of other stuff I want to write, so smash that subscribe button or follow my tumblr for updates. Apologies for the delay with this chapter, I made it extra long for you. 
> 
> Tons of thank-yous to everyone who's liked and commented on this beast! I write for you guys and no one else, and it means a lot when people tell me how much they enjoy my writing. <3 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: brief panic attack in the beginning, sexual content a little bit later.

_Seven years prior. Fjord._

“Yeah, they’re definitely fucking.”

Fjord’s head jerked up and he followed Sabe’s gaze across the quad to where Caleb and Wulf were walking shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed deeply in conversation. A stab of jealousy soured in his gut and the stroke of his knife on the woodblock slowed. At his side, Sabe gave a short bark of laughter.

“Careful, mate, you’re gonna cut yourself. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”

Fjord looked down at his hands. The whittling knife was still keen-edged from the strop he’d given it earlier in the week, and it hovered dangerously close to the tender meat where thumb met hand. He relaxed his grip on the handle and turned the point aside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Sabe bent over his woodblock again, working so quickly that Fjord could barely follow the movement of his blade. Little curls of pale wood fell like thick clusters of snow and joined the pile already heaped between his feet. “It’s all right, summer’s almost over and then it won’t matter. You _are_ still comin’ to the coast, right?”

“Yeah.” Fjord blinked against the sunlight. Caleb and Wulf had stopped walking and were facing each other now, gesticulating wildly as they discussed something. He would’ve thought it was an argument except that Caleb was smiling, and Wulf had that soft furrow between his brows that he always got when he looked at Caleb. Fjord felt his hand begin to tighten on the knife again and he threw both knife and woodblock to the ground in a huff. “Thanks again for that, by the way. I didn’t know what the fuck I was gonna do after graduation.”

“Not a problem. Uncle Van was getting nervous about being short on hands, so he’s happy to have some fresh meat.” Sabe elbowed him playfully in the side. “Don’t worry, he’s softer than he pretends. Like someone else I know.”

Fjord leaned back on his palms on the porch and peered up at the sky. “Who?”

“ _You_ , dumbass.” Sabe finally put his whittling down entirely and turned to look at him. “Dude, you really have to get over him. It’ll be better in the long run.”

“Sabe…”

“Don’t _Sabe_ me. It’s fucking obvious you have the hots for Widogast. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell him before, but whatever. In two weeks you’ll be in a different country and he’ll be off to his fancy school with his boyfriend—”

“Wulf’s not his boyfriend,” Fjord said automatically, a little more abrupt than he’d meant to.

Sabe gave him a look. “Oh really.”

“ _Really._ He told me, Wulf doesn’t want to date yet, he’s got some repressed religious bullshit to work through first. And he’s like, half engaged to Astrid or something because their parents are old-fashioned—”

“Old-fashioned, is that what they’re calling cults now?”

“They’re not part of a cult, Sabe.” Fjord shook his head and stood, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “Never mind, it’s not important. Like you said, I’ll be gone in two weeks, and I’ll probably never see him again.”

Fjord was halfway to the cabin he shared with Caleb when he heard Sabe’s footsteps and shouts to wait echoing behind him. He walked a little faster to get out of sight of the quad and turned around with a sigh.

“What, Sabe?”

“I’m sorry, okay? That was shitty to say.”

Fjord snorted. “Which part?”

“I dunno, all of it. Like, it’s kind of true, you gotta get over him, you could do _so_ much better—hey! Don’t hit me!” Sabe laughed, barely pretending to duck away from Fjord’s lazy punch to the arm. “I’m just saying, he’s oblivious and in weird limbo with another guy. Don’t waste your time. Go work, let him get his shit together at school, and then…”

“And then what?” Fjord turned away again to slump down the path. Sabe kept up with him easily, arms swinging freely at his sides while Fjord kept his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Ask him to move hundreds of miles away from home for me?”

“You could try long distance,” Sabe suggested. There was a bit of strain in his voice despite the encouraging tone, like he knew it was a pointless endeavor. Still, Fjord appreciated the effort.

“Thanks,” he sighed, “but I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

“Well, don’t mope around about it. It’s fuckin’ boring to watch. Go plant a kiss on him and enjoy your last few weeks of freedom, or… I dunno, man. _Two weeks._ There’s so much crazy shit we gotta cram in before we leave.”

“We’re counselors, Sabe, that’s not really encouraged.”

“Oh _pthbbt_ to that. Widogast ain’t gonna yell at you for goofing off a little, he’s soft on you. And the last week is older kids anyway, they’d rather we didn’t hover over their shoulders the whole goddamn time. Too busy necking in the woods…”

Fjord laughed and felt his gloom start to lift despite himself. “Y’know, I think you might be onto something.”

“I know I am! I’m, like, sixty-three percent right one hundred percent of the time.”

“Only sixty-three? And that doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m well aware I’m a fuckup, okay?”

“Join the frickin’ club.”

Sabe laughed. “Cheers to that. And hey, if you need something to take our mind off the boy, let me know.”

Fjord’s steps slowed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, y’know. Sometimes a little fun goes a long way.” Sabe wiggled his eyebrows. “Tell you what, meet me behind the rec center tonight after you put your kiddies to bed. I’ll show you a good time.”

“I’m not sure that’s really…” Fjord trailed off. He wasn’t sure exactly what Sabe was suggesting, but he was pretty sure it didn’t fall under the _permitted substances_ list Gustav had had them sign at the beginning of the summer. Still… camp was almost over. And Fjord was _tired_ , dammit. Not physically, not really, not any more than usual. But emotionally… “All right,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “It better be worth it.”

Sabe grinned, slow and sharklike. “Oh, it will be.” Then he clapped Fjord on the back quickly, two rough pats. “C’mon, I bet if we go flash your puppy eyes and my pecs at Jester we can get free ice cream.”

The little knot of disquiet in Fjord’s belly disappeared and he laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that. She’s not all ga-ga for boys anymore. Plus Beau will smash your head in if you look at her the wrong way.”

Sabe waved a hand. “I can handle Beau. You just focus on that ice cream.”

“Yeah, all right.” Fjord shook his head and, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder at the quad, followed Sabe down the forked path to the ice cream stand.

* * *

_Present day_

Caleb seizes awake in the early muddled light of morning. His limbs are stiff and too tightly-coiled, his skin slick with collected sweat behind his knees and under his arms, and yet he’s shivering uncontrollably, dry-mouthed and huffing with short, anxious breaths.

Someone is talking to him.

“Caleb, sweetheart. You all right? Are you with us?”

He knows that voice. He’s just not sure why it’s talking to him like he’s a frightened animal.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“Yeah, but not in… not in years, to my knowledge.” Molly. That’s Molly, sweet, darling Molly, and the other must be Fjord—

“Caleb, darlin', can you hear me?”

Caleb opens his eyes. He’s curled up in the center of Yasha’s bed, knees to his chest and arms around himself as if he’s trying to fit himself into the smallest possible space. Molly is at his back—he can feel his hand very lightly on his upper arm where Caleb’s own fingernails are digging in like claws. Almost as soon as that thought registers in his mind, the pain sets in. He releases himself with a slow wince. Fjord, hovering close but not quite touching, gives him a nervous smile.

“Hey, kid. There you are.”

“Here I am,” Caleb whispers hoarsely. He gives a soft cough and ties to move, tries to unwind himself. Fjord and Molly give him space, and soon he’s sitting at the edge of the bed with his feet hanging off, shoulders hunched as he focuses on breathing slowly and evenly. _What happened?_

“What happened?” Molly asks, as if he heard him think it. “Did you have a dream, darling?”

“I think I must have. But I can’t remember what it was, if it was good or bad or…” He stares at the red half-moons he left in his arms, feels the clammy chill of sweat slowly evaporating from his skin. “It must have been bad. I just…”

He presses the palms of his hands to his face. He hasn’t had a nightmare in a very long time—at least not _that_ sort of nightmare. Just the usual sort, now and then, like standing in front of a crowd in only his underwear, or trying to communicate some menial concept to someone and finding himself unable to articulate it. This is different. This is something he can barely remember, just a vague, uncertain dread in the pit of his stomach, scooping his chest cavity hollow and leaving traces of clammy sweat under his clothes. He’s only wearing a tee-shirt, he realizes with some dismay. Nothing else, not even the scant modesty of boxers. He tugs at his shirt in a futile effort to cover himself, and the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey there.” Molly touches his cheek briefly before sliding out of bed. He’s stark naked, but he moves quickly, rummaging in Yasha’s storage under the bed and producing some worn-soft Adidas sweatpants for Caleb to put on. He fishes out an oversized hoodie for himself and pulls his leggings from last night back on, and Caleb starts to breathe a little easier. “All right?” Molly asks, smiling that soft, crinkle-edged smile that Caleb is sure he could draw from memory. “Fjord’s right behind you, baby, why don’t you snuggle up to him and get warm? I’ll put some coffee on.”

Caleb has just enough presence of mind not to beg him to leave. He accepts the gentle kiss to the cheek and subsides into the circle of Fjord’s arms. Fjord’s chest is bare but broad and warm and welcoming, and some of the icy discomfort left by the nightmare starts to subside in his embrace.

“Sorry,” Caleb croaks eventually.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know. For ruining… things. The morning after’s supposed to be a whole _thing_ , isn’t it?”

“It’s not _supposed_ to be anything, darlin’. It is what we make of it. And I’m sorry you didn’t sleep very well, but we’re all cuddled up an’ cozy now, so. I got no complaints.”

Not quite believing him, Caleb peers up into his face. Fjord’s smile is utterly patient, his eyes a little crusty around the edges and droopy with sleep. His hair is a wreck, too—whatever product he uses to keep it nicely coiffed was smashed utterly to shit last night, and how his undercut is a poofy tangle of black and silver-grey exploding in all directions. Caleb reaches up and pets careful fingertips along the shaved part above one ear, and smiles when the ear in question twitches.

“Guten morgen,” Caleb whispers.

“Mornin’, sweets. How you feeling?”

Caleb takes a breath, takes stock. “Better, I think.” There’s a distant quiver of anxiety, but it’s nothing compared to the sheer panic of waking up. He rubs his eyes and tries to tunnel through the cobwebbed recesses of his memory, to no avail. “I wish I could remember the dream…”

“It seemed pretty awful,” Fjord says soberly. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember it.”

_Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember. It’ll be easier that way._

Caleb shoves his face into Fjord’s broad chest, trying to breathe evenly. It feels like there’s something picking at the edges of his consciousness, an insistent fingernail _pluck, pluck, plucking_ away at the fringe of a worn-out blanket. But the seams are sturdy and well-made, and they won’t give up so easily.

“There’s something I’m missing, I think,” he whispers. “Some… puzzle piece. Only I don’t know what the puzzle is supposed to look like.” He glances up and catches the worried frown on Fjord’s face. “I’m sorry, I’m talking nonsense. Ignore me.”

“If you want me to, I will,” Fjord murmurs, “but you seem pretty shaken up, darlin.”

“Yeah… ugh, I don’t know. Just weird dreams, I guess. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

He tries to put the dream, the tangle, out of his mind and focus on the now. Fjord is warm against him, rumbling faintly in the depths of his chest with a muted half-asleep purr, and he can hear Molly puttering around in the kitchen. It’s terribly domestic and cozy, and gradually Caleb feels himself begin to drift again, flirting with the edges of sleep.

At some point, as the smell of fresh coffee begins to permeate the Stormchaser, Fjord rolls a bit, sprawling onto his back with his legs stretched out and Caleb balanced neatly on his barrel chest. His hands are firm at Caleb’s back, rubbing slow, soothing half-circles against his shirt under the blankets. The fog of last night is almost completely dissipated. Caleb wriggles up and plants a tentative kiss at the corner of Fjord’s lips. The answering smile is immediate. “Careful, darlin’, I’ve got morning breath.”

“Ja, me too.” Another little kiss, to celebrate the steady, drum-like _thu-thunk_ of Fjord’s heartbeat underneath his ribs. Caleb curls his toes against the sheets. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Mmm.” Fjord cracks one eye open at him. “S’pose I don’t.” Blunt nails, kept carefully trimmed, scrape a little bit at the small of Caleb’s back. It sends pleasant little _zings_ up his spine and lifts the hair at his nape.

Fjord’s a sweetly sloppy kisser when he’s tired. His mouth is always just a little bit open, his tongue soft and slow to answer Caleb’s. His mouth is sour, as promised, but so is Caleb’s, and after a minute or two of trading lazy kisses, there’s nothing to taste at all.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee precedes Molly’s entrance, and by the time he arrives Caleb is boneless in Fjord’s arms, chin a tiny bit reddened with beard burn from Fjord’s morning stubble. “Mm, look who it is,” Molly purrs. He sets three mugs next to one another on the sturdy window ledge at the head of the bed. “My two favorite boys doing my two favorite things.”

Fjord drags his mouth away and blinks up at Molly, syrup-sweet. “What two things are we doing?”

“Making out, for one,” Molly says, holding up one finger as he invites himself up onto the mattress. “For another, I see that hand, Mr. Fjord. Tsk, don’t be embarrassed, nothing wrong with a little friendly dry-humping first thing in the morning.”

“ _Molly_.” Caleb hides his face in Fjord’s chest and tries not to laugh. “We weren’t—”

They _hadn’t_ been, honestly, even though Fjord’s hand is firmly on Caleb’s ass, and had been giving it a nice fond squeeze now and again as they sucked face. Even though Caleb is definitely a little bit hard in his borrowed sweatpants, probably, maybe. Fjord just laughs and moves his hand away.

“All right, you caught me havin’ a grope. Sue me. You’ve seen his ass, can you blame me?”

“Hmm, fair.” Smirking, Molly leans down and kisses the top of Caleb’s head. “Don’t stop on my account, anyway, but I _am_ going to sit here and enjoy my coffee whether you’re fucking or not.”

“We’re not going to fuck in front of you,” Fjord insists, even though he hasn’t stopped petting the small of Caleb’s back.

Molly makes a little disappointed sound, tongue against teeth, and settles back against the pillow with his coffee. “Suit yourself.”

Caleb nuzzles a kiss against Fjord’s bare chest. The coffee smells good, but so does Fjord. The warm, thick weight of his belly between Caleb’s thighs is sturdy and grounding. He wriggles back and forth a little, settling in. “Molly?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Can I see your phone?”

Molly looks puzzled for a moment before understanding dawns, along with a slow-curling grin. “Of course. The battery’s probably pretty low, but go to town.” He unlocks the screen and passes it over. It’s already open to the video gallery.

“Want to see?” Caleb asks, tapping his fingertips against Fjord’s chest.

“Yeah, definitely.”

They settle in together, Molly on one side with his coffee and his tail curling on the sheets, Caleb in the middle with the phone, and Fjord on the other side, chin on Caleb’s shoulder and his hand spread possessively on Caleb’s belly. Caleb can feel his blunt nails scratching gently through his shirt as he hits play. Fjord immediately mumbles something and shoves his face into Caleb’s neck.

“What?” Caleb laughs. “Embarrassed?”

“ _Yes_ ,” is the low response, but Fjord doesn’t sound upset. On the narrow screen, lit softly by the fairy lights hanging above the bed, the Fjord from last night jerks himself off onto Caleb’s upturned ass, punctuated by low groans and the whispered conversation between Caleb and Molly. Caleb watches it twice through, and by the time he’s flipping through to look at the snapshots Fjord took of the aftermath, he can feel Fjord poking a stiffy into his hip.

“You’re very sexy, Fjord,” Molly assures him, reaching behind Caleb’s head to stroke Fjord’s hair. “You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I was so—so _aggressive_ ,” Fjord mutters.

“You were _not_ ,” Caleb insists, tossing the phone aside—gently—to turn his full attention on Fjord. He coaxes his head up and kisses his pouty lower lip until Fjord deigns to kiss him back, attentive and soft. Caleb feels a hand in his hair, nails longer than Fjord’s, and sighs happily.

This, _this_ is what he wanted out of a lazy morning. Not cold sweats and anxious half-remembered dreams, but Fjord’s embrace, his eager mouth, his dick making a tent in his shorts. Spurred by the tingling drag of Molly’s nails down his nape, Caleb reaches down and toys with the drawstring, knuckles rubbing absently against Fjord’s erection.

“Is this okay?” he whispers between kisses. Fjord gulps and nods, sputtering out half-hearted _you don’t have to’_ s as Caleb worms his way lower. He ignores them, encouraged by Fjord’s heaving breaths and clumsy, eager hands, following the ache on the back of his tongue. He licks his lips and leaves a thick shine of spittle behind as he tugs Fjord’s short down just enough. Fjord’s cock springs free like a jack-in-the-box and Caleb laughs even as he gets a hand around its girth.

“Fuck,” Fjord whispers, looking down at him. “Molls, you sure you don’t mind if we…?”

“Abso _lutely_ not.” Molly kicks back a gulp of coffee and sets the mug aside, curling up against Fjord’s shoulder like he’s settling in to watch a good movie. Caleb feels a thrill of performance anxiety and forces it down.

A hundred half-formed fears rise up and fade away as he nuzzles the head of Fjord’s dick. It smells amazing, musky and strong with a little bit of mineral sharpness from the hot springs the night before. A little bead of fluid wells up and Caleb licks it away. Fjord’s sturdy thighs twitch under him and he hears a faint _fuck me_ from up above—in that moment he’s not sure which one of them said it, and he doesn’t much care. At last, at last, mouth watering, he parts his lips and slides Fjord’s cock into his mouth.

He’s never sucked cock before, but something about it feels natural. The taste, the texture on his tongue, the wiry prickle of pubic hair where his fingers grip the base to steady it. He knows Fjord and Molly are watching, so he makes a proper show of it—tongue out, drooling as much as possible, lapping the frenulum until all he can taste is the sour tang of precome. Fjord is too well-endowed to get all of him in at once, at least not yet, but Caleb gives as much as he can, gagging a little around the head and making up the difference with his hand.

Eventually Fjord’s hands settle in his hair, wiping sweat from his brow, and he can hear his broken whisper, “I’m close, Cay.”

Pride surges through him and he redoubles his efforts. He presses his nose as close to Fjord’s belly as he can manage and swallows around the head. Fjord gives a cry as his hips jerk up, and suddenly he’s _inside_ Caleb’s throat and he’s cumming, Caleb can feel it—the tension in his thighs, the shuddering grip of Fjord’s hands in his hair. Eyes watering, he tries to stay put; but it’s Molly who pulls him off, who wipes the dampness from his cheeks and the spunk from Caleb’s lips. Caleb sucks Molly’s thumb into his mouth and grins to see the tiefling’s eyes darken.

“Fuck,” Fjord breathes, and reaches for him. “I’m sorry, Caleb, I didn’t mean to—did I hurt you?”

“I’m all right,” Caleb says. His voice sounds like it’s being forced through a cheese grater, but he can’t stop grinning despite the rawness of his throat, and he takes care to lick Fjord clean with careful little kitten licks before tugging his shorts back up. “I liked it.”

“You’re a fucking master. I’ve never seen a beginner suck cock like that.” Molly sounds impressed, but there’s a hint of something else in his face. Caleb wipes a stray patch of drool from his chin and shrugs, burning bright red now with embarrassment.

“I dunno, I’ve just… always liked the idea of it. Um.” He squirms a little under Molly’s scrutiny. “Can I…”

“Can you what, sweetheart?”

Caleb licks his lips, and is pleased when Molly’s eyes drop to follow the movement. “Can I suck your dick next?”

Fjord actually _cackles_ at this, loose-limbed still after orgasm but still piercing bright with laughter as he nudges Molly in the side with an elbow. “He’s got your number, Tealeaf.”

“I’m—I mean, I don’t—I don’t know what, um, terminology…”

“Any. All. Just—” Molly cuts himself off and laughs, too, as if delighted with Caleb’s frankness. “Anything but _pussy_ , honestly, is fair game, um… fucking hell, you’re a menace. Look at your pretty, pretty mouth.” He reaches out and cups Caleb’s chin in his hand, thumb tracing the bottom edge of his puffy lower lip. “I want that face in my cunt _stat_.”

Caleb grins against his hand. “Yes please.”

Getting Molly out of his leggings is a little more of a production. They need to come all the way off but they’re disinclined to be dragged away, clinging to his calves and tangling around his ankles as Caleb tugs with increasing fervor. Molly is breathless with laughter and contortion by the time Caleb dumps the leggings on the floor—and then he’s breathless with something else as Caleb lays between his thighs and kisses smooth skin.

He works up to it. Starts with the inner thighs and follows their curvature to the inevitable apex. Molly’s fingers lay soft against his cheek, guiding him softly, holding him in place when he finds the right spots to linger. Molly is… sweeter than Caleb expected, and hotter. He was ready for the slick, but everything else is entirely new and exciting, including the frantic half-stifled moans as Molly gets close and the burst of foul language when he comes against Caleb’s tongue. Caleb glances up, keeping his mouth soft, and licks in close when Molly nods encouragement against the pillow.

“Look at that sweet face,” Molly rasps. He crooks one leg to open himself wider, sliding the flat of his foot against Caleb’s side. Caleb worms one hand beneath himself and teases Molly’s entrance with two fingers. Molly groans. “Those eyes… the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Cay… _fuck—”_

Caleb doesn’t pull away until Molly taps out with three quick pats on the cheek. His chin is soaked and there’s a definite wet spot on the sheets, but he’s too turned on—and Molly too blissed out—to care.

“Fucking hell that was hot,” Fjord mutters.

“Are you hard again yet?” Molly asks, laughing as he tugs Caleb up by his shirt collar.

“Not quite, give me a few minutes.” Fjord sits up a little and kisses Caleb full on the mouth, licking the taste of Molly off his tongue. “But first, I think someone’s earned a reward or two.”

“You can say that again. What do you want, sweetheart? A blowjob? Handie? I could use a little lube first but you’re more than welcome to fuck me if you like.” Molly purrs that last against the curve of Caleb’s neck, one hand massaging the tent in Caleb’s sweats, and Caleb nearly comes right then and there. He buckles forward, feeling heat and damp pulse in the head of his cock.

“I don’t know,” he admits. His hips seem to be moving of their own volition, humping Fjord thigh as Molly teases him through the thin fabric. “I just—I’m close, Moll—Fjord—”

Some secret unspoken signal seems to pass between his lovers, and a moment later Caleb’s entire world is spinning as he’s rolled onto his back in the center of the bed. Molly tugs his sweatpants down and the two of them shuffle and vie for space, legs tangled together and heads knocking. There’s a burst of muffled laughter and then a short, petulant  _oh you bastard_ from Molly as Fjord gets his lips around Caleb’s dick. Then it’s just heat, and warmth, and tightness, hands on his balls and stroking his perineum, sharp sucking kisses over his hips, and he comes in a rush, pinned to the mattress and shaking to pieces with Zemnian blooming sweetly on his tongue.

Then, there is coffee. Lukewarm but still tasty, and if they dribble a little onto the sheets as they trade kisses in the mussed bedding, it doesn’t matter, because their next stop is a laundromat.

* * *

“Okay, what’s the plan?”

Caleb looks up from formulating his reply to the group chat and smiles. Molly has fabricated an outfit out of yesterday’s clothes and some of Yasha’s winter attire—previously stored out of sight under her bed—and he looks like he walked off a runway where the models were required to only wear pieces selected at local thrift shops.

“Apparently Jester is still in bed, but Beau and Yasha are advocating for brunch somewhere.” He reaches out and nabs Molly by the collar of his hot pink windbreaker, reeling him in to stand between his knees where he’s perched on the rumbling dryer. “C’mere.”

Molly wiggles his eyebrows. “Are we going to cause a _scene_?”

“Well, Fjord isn’t here, and he’s about eighty percent of my impulse control, so—”

“Ha! That’s not true, Widogast, you’re the least impulsive person I know.”

Caleb pouts despite the friendly warmth of Molly’s hands on his knees. “Am I really that boring?”

“Oh darling, you’re not boring at _all_. Ask me how I know.”

Caleb regards his wicked smirk with some distrust. “...how?”

Molly leans up on his tiptoes and plants a smooch on Caleb’s lips. “Because I don’t fall in love with boring people. Also you give amazing blow—”

Caleb smothers him with his hands and Molly subsides, giggling wildly as something inside the dryer begins to thump rhythmically. “What’s in here anyway, _shoes_?”

“No! I don’t know, maybe Yasha’s bedding…” He trails off into a bumbling hum and leans harder into Caleb’s hands as they drag through his hair. “Where did Fjord go off to, anyway?”

“Got a phone call.” Caleb rubs his thumb along the arch of Molly’s brow and peers into his colorful face. “Did you really say that just now?”

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

“Oh.” Molly’s heavy-lidded eyes fly wide, and his lashes brush the curve of Caleb’s palm where he cups his face in one hand. “I suppose I did. Would you rather I hadn’t?”

“I don’t mind.” Caleb smiles. “This is just a whole lot of… feeling. That I’m not used to.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it? I highly recommend it.” Molly turns and kisses the palm of Caleb’s hand. “Brunch then, after laundry is done?”

“Ja. I think that’s what’s happening. Here. Did you leave your phone back at the Stormchaser?”

“Yeah, it had hardly any battery left. Forgot to plug it in overnight.” Molly sighs and lays his head on Caleb’s thigh. “You have any aspirin? My head hurts.”

“I don’t, but there’s a pharmacy around the corner I think. Shall we go get some?”

“Mmmh… maybe on our way out. We don’t need to make a special trip.”

Caleb pets Molly’s hair and lets his eyes wander. The laundromat is mostly deserted, and through the large glass windows he can see Fjord meandering slowly along the sidewalk, one hand shoved deep into his pocket and the other holding his phone up to his ear. It’s a bit chilly outside for midsummer, overcast and heavy with the threat of rain, so he’s wearing jeans and a light jacket over his MCU shirt. Caleb ducks his chin into the hood of his borrowed sweatshirt and tries to read Fjord’s expression through the glass.

“D’you know who’s calling?”

“Nope. Might be work-related.”

“Hmm.” It occurs to Caleb, like it sometimes does, that he’s not really sure what Fjord’s work _is_. Something to do with boats and shipping and lifting heavy things. It seems to be seasonal, or at least to wax and wane depending on the work available, but Fjord never seems to want for income.

He opens his mouth to ask Molly for details and stops when Fjord hangs up and shoulders his way back into the laundromat. He realizes in a strange flash that he doesn’t want Fjord to know he’s curious—doesn’t want to be caught _prying_ , even though it’s a perfectly reasonable question. Then Fjord is abreast of them, smiling and light on his toes, and all thought of inquiring further flees his mind.

“Hello,” Fjord says, slipping his hand into Molly’s back pocket. “Sorry about that?”

“Trouble?” Caleb asks.

“Not at all. Just heard from an old buddy of mine, Orly. He’s come into a bit of an inheritance and he wanted to know if I had any interest in going into business together.”

“ _What_? Orly Skiffback, the one with the—” Molly gestures around his back as if to illustrate something and Fjord laughs.

“The tortle bloke, yeah. That’s the one.”

“Are you going to do it?” Caleb asks, voice quivering with a note that pulls between excitement and anxiety. Steady work is important, of course, but the thought of Fjord leaving them so soon is gutwrenching. Fjord must sense it, because he cups a hand around the back of Caleb’s knee and leans into him, warm and comforting.

“I told him I’d think about it. He needs some time to work out the particulars, anyway, so it’s not urgent. Two weeks and he’ll gave the paperwork drawn up and I can give him a better answer.”

“Two weeks,” Caleb echoes as his heart sinks into his shoes. 

“I know it’s not a lot of time,” Fjord admits, “but it’s something. Seems reasonable to put a bit of a cap on this adventure anyway, right? You gotta get back to school, Yasha’s gonna want to fuck off eventually to do her thing, Molly…”

“Molly has to figure out what the fuck he’s doing with his life,” Molly sighs, and then laughs. “But that’s all very dull. Congratulations, Fjord, please don’t become old and boring like every other sailor I’ve ever met. Sitting around on cold winter nights telling the same story three times over and complaining about your busted knees...”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Fjord interrupts with a smile. “Hey, do you think the others might want to… change course a little?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well we’re sort of headed north, aren’t we? Or at least we moved north from Trostenwald to Zadash, and someone mentioned Rexxentrum or maybe checking out the border… but what if we went south?”

“To the Coast?” Molly asks. “I won’t lie, a nice sandy beach sounds divine right about now.”

“We can talk to the girls about it,” Caleb suggests, quietly relieved at the suggestion of accompanying Fjord back home. Even if Fjord has to work a bit in the coming weeks, maybe they can hang around, iron out the new relationship they’ve cultivated. A very tiny spark of an idea blinks awake at the thought of working on his thesis remotely while setting up a cozy, domestic home with Fjord and Molly, and he carefully tamps the heat down before it can grow into an inferno. Daydreams won’t put food on the table, and his parents would hate for him to be so far away…

“You look lost in thought, darling.” Molly laces their fingers together and brings Caleb’s hand up to kiss the back of it. “What are you thinking?”

Caleb smiles. “I’m thinking I’m hungry.”

“Same,” Fjord agrees fervently. “This has gotta be almost done, right? Then we can meet the girls for brunch.”

“How stereotypically gay of us,” Molly drawls, and grins with all his teeth. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

Brunch is made bearable by copious amounts of mimosa. Caleb blushes a bright crimson through most of it, anyway, until Nott finally complains about the sex jokes and Jester subsides into smirky Infernal muttering to Molly, sparing the rest of them her line of questioning.

After breakfast they split up to do some shopping, agreeing to meet back up in the center of town for the midsummer festival that’s running all week long. Fjord gets a blank look of terror on his face and mutters something about _going for a jog_ and disappears, and Jester and Molly are still nattering on together between discussions of thrift shops and flea markets, so Caleb nudges Nott and they make a plan to hit up some of the bookshops in the area.

Caleb has never been to Zadash before. It’s a bit overwhelming, in a good way: there’s so much to see and smell and hear that his social anxiety doesn’t have time to gain a foothold. And the _bookstores._ The first few are very shiny-bright and smell of new paper, and he only drifts through the stacks for a few minutes before needing to step out into the fresh air again. But Nott is very good at getting information out of strangers, and eventually they wind their way up into the older districts and find themselves walking uphill along a narrow cobbled street. Old, crooked book shops vie for room with tea shops and quiet local businesses, and antique stores squat cheerfully with their doors flung open to exude the powder smell of old paper and resin. Caleb’s nape prickles excitedly and he casts a subtle _detect magic_ once he’s sure no one on the street is looking.

“So,” Nott says as they wander out of one shop and into another. He hasn’t found anything with his spell yet, but this particular shop is deeper than it is wide, and there’s plenty of real estate to explore yet.

“So?”

“How was it?”

“ _Nott_.” Caleb makes a pained face that’s reflected back at him in the glass of a ship in a bottle. When he squints at it sideways the ship almost seems to be moving. Curious. “I thought this wasn’t your thing.”

“It’s not! I’m not asking for _details_ , Cay, gross. I just wanted to make sure they treated you right and that everyone is happy. You seemed kinda down at brunch.”

“I’m not—well, I guess I _am_ , a little. But it’s nothing to do with _them_. I mean—”

Nott arches her eyebrows at him.

“Ja, okay, I know how it sounds. What I mean is… last night was lovely, it was… it was perfect.” He ducks his head and blushes, turning away from her piercing gaze to plod along the aisle. “But this morning Fjord got a call, and he might need to go back to the Menagerie Coast in a few weeks. Something about a business deal, I don’t really know.”

“A business deal, like a job?”

“Something like that I think, ja.”

“Well that’s good, right?” Nott skips along beside him to keep pace and pokes him knowingly in the side. “One of the three of you needs to be a breadwinner, and it ain’t gonna be Molly, and _you’re_ about to go back to school…”

“That’s just it,” Caleb whispers. “What if they go back to the Coast and I go to school, and by the time the semester’s over they’ve forgotten all about me?”

Nott levels him an unimpressed look. “That’s the anxiety talking, Caleb, not you. Who could forget about you? _Especially_ them? You didn’t see yourselves at breakfast, Cay. It was kind of gross, but in a cute way. I don’t think I’ve seen Fjord smile that much since we were kids.” Nott fixes him with her patented yellow stare, the one that always seems to peel beneath his layers to get at the tough, sinewy bits underneath. “Besides, what’s stopping you from doing your thesis remotely? You could just move there, Port Damali is a giant coastal city, they must have _tons_ of libraries. Maybe the Cobalt Soul even has a sister college there or something.”

“Nothing is… stopping me, exactly.” Caleb knows that it’s useless to play coy, but he can’t help it—he needs to drag it out, to warm up to it. “I don’t know. Isn’t it a bad idea to move in with people when you first start dating them?”

“Why are you asking me? I know fuck-all about relationships.” Nott shrugs. “I dunno man, you’re all adults. You can probably figure it out.”

“We can certainly try.” The back of Caleb’s skull pings with a faint _detect magic_ smudge, but he’s distracted by another, more pressing thought. “Nott… are you, you know. Comfortable? With us?”

Nott blinks at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just mean—I don’t want you to feel left out, is all. And I feel like a self-absorbed twat for even suggesting it, but—”

“Oh! You mean because everyone is fucking each other except me?”

Caleb winces and looks around, but they’re alone in the stacks as far as he can tell. “Erm… I suppose so. I don’t really know what the girls are doing, but I assume they’re…”

“They’re definitely fucking. I mean, they didn’t last night, last night we had a really nice sleepover in the dorm with a few other people, painted each other’s nails and drank a lot of bad tequila. It was _great_.”

“I didn’t think alcohol was allowed in the dorm area…?”

“Caleb, please. I am a master at sneaking illicit substances into places they shouldn’t be.” Nott clears her throat and finally thinks to drop her voice. “Anyway, that’s not important. All that to say… not yet? To the feeling left out bit? We’ll see how it goes.”

“But you’ll let me know, right? If you start to feel not great about it.”

“I mean. If you want me to,” Nott says doubtfully. “But what are you gonna do about it? I mean, I don’t want y’all to stop having your happy touchy-feely lovey-dovey time just because I’m a wet blanket—”

“You’re _not_ a wet blanket, Nott.” Caleb gives her a stern look and steps in close, nudging their shoulders together. “You’re my friend.”

Nott shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I mean it’s not a big deal, I’m kinda used to being… on the outside of all that. And I’m happy to be there, really! Just. I dunno.” Her fingers are getting twitchy on her arms. She must have left her flask back at the Leaky Tap.

Caleb does a quick look-around and summons Frumpkin, depositing him unceremoniously into Nott’s arms. She scoffs at him but accepts the silent peace offering and kisses the top of his head. Frumpkin (reluctantly) begins to purr.

“You’re not on the outside,” Caleb says firmly. _Detect magic_ still hums in the back of his mind but he waves it off with a clumsy brush of his hand through his fluffy hair. “It’s all of us together, just like it always has been and always will be.”

Nott eyes him askance. “Not Astrid and Wulf, though.”

Caleb blinks and tries not to physically reel back like he wants to. He hasn’t thought of Astrid or Wulf in ages—years, it feels like, though he does recall sharing a bit of gossip around the fire their first night camping. “No. Not them.”

“There’s more to that story, Cay. Isn’t there.” She bends her head to Frumpkin, focusing on the rhythmic pass of her hand over his spine. “I know you said you guys had a weird falling-out at camp, but… I dunno. Don’t you ever wonder where they went to? What they’re doing now?”

Caleb squints at her. There’s a nervousness to her demeanor that twigs something in the back of his head. Something that doesn’t feel right. “Nott, what did you do?”

“I’m sorry!” she blurts out. “I’m sorry, I was curious, so I just. Did a little research. That’s all.”

“What _kind_ of research, Nott?” His pulse is suddenly jackhammering inside his chest, and nervous sweat begins to pop out under his arms and in the creases of his clenched palms. “Tell me.”

“I… I sent an email. Um. It was faked! I mean, I had Jester help me forge it like months ago. Nothing _came_ of it,” she adds quickly. “It was just a dead-end. Sort of. I mean, I gave up after I heard back, because I’m pretty sure the burner email I used ended up on some kind of watchlist.”

Caleb’s head begins to pound. “ _Nott_.”

“Okay, okay! I just, I sent an email to the Sols...trice…”

“Soltryce.” He suddenly wants to throw up. “The Soltryce Academy, you contacted them?”

“Sort of! Jester helped me pose as a, um, prospective student… I said I went to school with Astrid when we were kids and I knew she had been an, an attendee, um…” Her voice fades away into nothing, withering beneath Caleb’s stare. “Are you very angry at me?”

“Nott,” Caleb whispers, “you don’t get it. She was _there_. She and Wulf were both there, when…” He chokes and has to wipe his mouth, trying to scrub feeling back into the numbness infusing his lips. “When the lab caught fire. They were there.”

Nott’s green face goes pale and ashen. “Wait. You never mentioned that part. The _lab_ caught fire? What lab, the lab at school?”

“Yes the lab at school! I don’t—I don’t really remember it very well, all right? Stuff got… mixed up in my head, and the PTSD and the medication they put me on afterward, it—it blurred things together a little.” Caleb covers his face with his hands, trying to push the throbbing in his skull back, back where it belongs. “What happened when you sent the letter, Nott? Did you… hear back?”

“Sort of. You know those automated replies? I got one of those, blah blah thank you for your interest, please contact so and so in these departments if you want more information on how to enroll in classes for the next semester. And then.” Nott’s fingers twist and twist together. Frumpkin, draped awkwardly across her shoulder like a fluffy orange scarf, has been forgotten. “A blocked account responded to the do-not-reply email. Said Astrid was no longer affiliated with the Academy, but if I had any information on her whereabouts I was to contact the police.” Her voice grows softer and softer as she speaks, and then closes up in the throat as Caleb pushes away from the log to pace. “Caleb, I’m sorry—”

“When?” he snaps. His limbs surge with uncontained energy and for a moment his eyes burn in the backs of their sockets as arcane fire ghosts beneath his skin. He quenches it at the last minute, but he is afraid. He is so, so afraid. “Nott, _when_ did you—”

“Months ago, like I said! Back in, in April. I didn’t hear back until I was packing to come down on this trip. I.” Her voice shakes as she pushes the words out. “I wanted to tell you before, but I was freaked out. I didn’t know what to think. I thought maybe if I ignored it it would just go away, but.”

“But _what_.”

“I just. I wanted to tell you the truth. I’ve felt so guilty about it, I didn’t even tell Jester about the reply because—Caleb, _please_ don’t be mad at her okay? Be mad at _me_. It was my idea, I was the one who asked her to do it. And. And I asked her not to say anything to you about it.” There are genuine tears in her eyes, now—she’s not one to cry very often unless she’s manipulating someone to get what she wants, but Caleb knows the difference. The moisture clinging to her eyelashes between swipes of her hands isn’t faked.

“Caleb,” she whispers. “Do you think… this thing with Fjord… do you think it’s connected?”

Toward the front of the shop, the doorbell chimes and a gust of warm city air wafts in, shaking Caleb out of his funk. He forces himself to stop pacing back and forth, and peels his glasses off so he can wipe the beading sweat away from the bridge of his nose. “I highly doubt it. That’s some… some old, deep magic that I don’t know about. And we’re gonna have to do something about it sooner or later, but that’s on Fjord’s watch. I can’t—we can’t force him to confront it until he’s ready.”

Nott licks her lips nervously. “What… what happened with Astrid and Wulf, Cay? I know you said you don’t remember, but… what happened in the lab, with the fire…?”

Caleb stares at the ground. The back of his neck prickles, like he’s being watched, but the only soul in their part of the store is Nott herself, hands buried once more in Frumpkin’s fur as his tail lashes her throat irritably. “We fought, the summer before graduation. Um. It was kind of shitty and childish, and we made up afterward—me and Astrid, I mean. Wulf kind of pretended he was okay, but I don’t think he was. And then we ended up entering the same program together, all three of us.”

“The special graduate studies thing? The experimental…”

“Ja, that one. Astrid’s father knew someone who knew someone, strings were pulled… I didn’t expect to get in. But there was something about me, I suppose, that they… that he liked.”

Nott chews her lower lip. “Professor Ik…”

“Excuse me,” says a new voice, low and drawling, and Caleb jumps nearly a foot in the air. “I’m terribly sorry, but, respectfully, I must remind you that there is a sign in the front that politely requests no animals be brought into the store.”

Caleb turns and looks up. And up. His mouth drops open a little as he takes in the man before him. He stands nearly eight feet tall, though he’s stooped, with spectacles balanced on the end of a broad, bovine nose and skin that’s lightly furred with greyish-blue. He has a thick head of dark curly hair and a leather apron pulled across his portly form, and he bows a little when he sees Caleb looking, a slow, unconcerned smile spreading across his face.

“Welcome, by the way, to the Invulnerable Vagrant. Once again, I deeply apologize for the interruption, but, respectfully, we do ask all our customers to maintain a calm and, ahem, _pet-free_ demeanor while shopping.”

“He’s not a pet,” Nott chirps before Caleb can find his words, shrill in spite of her defensive stance behind Caleb’s elbow. “He’s a fey familiar. And a service cat!”

“It-it-it’s okay, Nott,” Caleb stammers. He snaps his fingers and Frumpkin disappears. “I’m very sorry sir, we didn’t mean to cause a, a ruckus.”

“No harm done!” says the big blue man, who Caleb is slowly coming to realize is a firbolg. He thinks back furiously and can’t recall ever meeting one in person before, though he’s seen a few at school at a distance. “Please, let me know if I can be of assistance. Are you searching for any item in particular?”

Caleb genuinely isn’t sure if he’s being honestly polite or is trying to chivvy them through their shopping experience to get them out as quickly as possible. As he thinks about waving the fellow off, he feels _detect magic_ puff into useless nothing, and sighs, resigning himself to his fate. “Actually, I was wondering if you had any books on magic. Theoretical or practical, doesn’t really matter. I’m a student, you see.”

“Ah, a member of the Cobalt Soul…?”

“Er, yes, actually. Or I will be, come fall.” He plasters on his most winning smile. “I haven’t started my thesis yet, so I’m really just poking around in shops around town to see if there’s anything of interest hiding in back rooms.”

“I’m not sure what we have in the way of books,” the proprietor admits, still as calm and cheerful as ever—his name tag reads _Pumat Sol_ , but Caleb is a little in fear of trying to pronounce it without offending the man—“but I can certainly ask Pumat Prime. If you would just follow me…?”

“I’m sorry, Pumat…?” Caleb echoes as the firbolg turns away.

“Oh! The original. I am not the _real_ Pumat, you see.”

“Then what are you?” Nott inquires suspiciously. She clings to Caleb’s side like a prickly thistle-bud as Pumat Sol, or whoever he is, leads them to the counter near the side of the shop.

“I am merely a magically manifested duplicate to aid in his work—one of many! Him being Pumat Prime. Pumat Prime being… he!”

The duplicate, who looks solid enough, gestures expansively as a back door swings open and an identical firbolg steps out, the same exact bloke as the one standing before them down to the last stitch on his neatly pressed shirt. _Their_ Pumat Sol’s shoulders slump.

“Ah. Forgive me, another duplicate.”

“My sincerest apologies,” says the new Pumat, bowing low as the door sighs shut behind him. “I am also Enchanter Pumat Sol, but not the original. Pumat Prime is… otherwise engaged.”

As if to punctuate this statement, there’s a soft but nearby _pop_ and pale wisps of smoke begin to escape from beneath the closed door. The newest Pumat harrumphs and adjusts his spectacles.

“Not to worry, Pumat Prime is well trained and _very_ well-equipped to deal with… emergencies. May I be of any assistance?”

“I think we’re just looking,” Caleb says, too stunned and delighted by this turn of events to give his book spiel again. “You said your title is… Enchanter?”

“Yes! Enchanter Pumat Sol, at your service.” Another deep bow, which Caleb feels obliged to replicate. “Please, browse to your heart’s content. And don’t mind any strange sounds you hear from behind the door, he’s just experimenting!”

“Caleb,” Nott whispers as both firbolg dopplegangers return to their counter duties, “we _have_ to tell the others about this place. It’s fuckin’ _wild_.”

“Yeah, holy shit. That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. How many of them are there?” Caleb whispers back, already getting out his phone. He sends a text to the group and puts his phone back in his pocket. Nott is still staring unapologetically at the identical shopkeeps, her face partly distorted through the glass of that bottled ship. “Nott?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry, I got distracted. Hey, is this thing moving?” She taps the glass and for a second Caleb could swear he sees rain lashing down against the surging waves. Then the bottle’s contents are still.

“It’s probably magic,” Caleb says, leaning close. “He did say he was an Enchanter. Or the Prime was. He must be _very_ powerful.”

“The stuff in here probably costs a fortune,” Nott whispers. She waggles her eyebrows at him. “My fingers are starting to feel sticky…”

“Nott, don’t. Seriously, all this stuff probably has tracking spells on it to keep people from stealing.”

“Ugh. Well fuck it, then.” She nudges his shoulder. “Hey, about before… I’m sorry about the letter. And for pushing you to… tell your story.”

The pit of Caleb’s stomach shivers, but he brushes the anxiety away. _Not now._ “It’s all right. I don’t think anything will come of it. The letter, I mean. And the rest of it…” He looks down at her. Her narrowed yellow eyes and her stubborn chin. His best friend in the whole world. “I want to tell you what happened to me. Just. Maybe not right here, right now?”

“Yeah. Probably a good call.” Nott sighs, then sticks out her hands palm up. Caleb grins in spite of himself. “C’mon, I know you remember it. Mr. Perfect Memory.”

“I do not have a perfect memory,” Caleb corrects her gently, but he reaches out anyway, smacking their fingertips together before the entire secret handshake rolls out, one movement after the other. The nearby shelves of artifacts are precarious, so they modify the hip-checks with a shove of an elbow here and a push of a shoulder there, but it ends like it always does, twin high fives and a delicious, crisply-enunciated Zemnian curse word:

“ _Arschloch!_ ”

“Ha! You messed up!”

“I did _not_ , you’re supposed to hook your pinky just like—”

“Nahhh fuck it Cay, I was messed with you. You got it right.” Nott grins at him, all teeth, unashamed. “See? Perfect memory.” Caleb feels his smile wobble and Nott reaches for him, tangling their hands together. “Hey, hey. You okay?”

“Ja, I’m fine. Or I will be.” He squeezes her hands. “I just… I don’t want Fjord to leave. I don’t want anyone to be upset with each other, and I don’t want the Soltryce to come sniffing around…” He squeezes his eyes shut, and a tiny bit of moisture escapes. Nott tuts at him and wipes it away before it can run down his cheek. “I just wish it could be like it used to. Everything was so much easier when we were kids.”

“So do I, sometimes,” Nott whispers. “But if you think about it… it’s not as much fun, is it? Yeah, this sucks for right now, a little bit. But it’ll get better. Sols-whatever can kiss my whole ass, and you _know_ Jess and I will cut a bitch before we let anyone touch you. Maybe Fjord will leave, but I doubt it. He loves you too much to just walk away, and Molly’s too big of a drama queen to let him go without a fight. And in the meantime, we’ll go on as we always have. We’ll have adventures, and cuddle piles, and eat a lot of garbage, and drink too much, and probably get into trouble with the law. But it’ll be memorable, right? That’s the important part.”

Caleb’s wobbly smile solidifies and he wipes hastily at his damp cheeks. “Yeah.”

“Right. Good.” Nott beams at him. “Chin up, kid. Let’s go outside, I think I saw an ice cream place next door. We can get sundaes and sit in the sun and wait for everyone else to show up.”

“Yes ma’am.” Caleb sniffs and stands up straight, trying to draw on her courage. He pops down and kisses the top of her head. “Dankeschön, Nott.”

“You’re welcome.” She snaps her fingers and darts for the door. A beat too slow, Caleb snaps his fingers back. A little spark leaps between them and is extinguished, and he hears Nott give a delighted cry as Frumpkin materializes outside the shop. “Look, Caleb, I did magic!”

“You sure did, Nottling.” Caleb catches the door with his hand before it closes and steps out onto the sidewalk. The wind catches at his collar and tugs impatient fingers through his hair as he stands there, watching Nott’s dark head bobbing up the street, a reddish-ochre blur at her heels. Beyond her, just turning the corner at the top of the sloping street, he can see Fjord with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. Yasha comes behind, Molly slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Caleb grins, waving, and starts his way up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The track for this chapter: Magic by The Cars. 
> 
> ALSO I realized I threw Pumat into some of the flashbacks but I'm gonna rescind that lmao.... my bad.


End file.
